


Corruption of the Ring

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1)



Series: Lord of the Uruloki [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, BAMF Bilbo, Dark Bilbo, Dragons, M/M, True Neutral Smaug, Worldbuilding, also dragons, diplomacy is the answer, dragons are always the answer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 88,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bilbo Baggins does not just <i>find</i> the Ring of Power, he learns to <i>use</i> it. Dark Lord Bilbo AU, featuring badass hobbits, disturbed wizards and irritated Nazgul.</p><p>And a curious dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Very many things have happened in my long life since the Ring of Power first came into my possession. I could never for a moment have anticipated, that day I left the comfort of my neat Hobbit Hole in the Shire, what heights of wonder and majesty I would reach, what servants I would one day command. I was a simple gentleman of simple means. Hardly someone you might expect would one day rule over the many lands and many races of Middle Earth. 

How did I come to this? Well, you might ask. And most creatures bold enough to question me would not be particularly fond of the consequences. I write this though, my Red Grimoire, not for the common folk who without my guidance would be constantly warring and fighting and hating one another, but for my nephew Frodo, who is dear to me, for all that he has little stomach for the necessities of power.

After the Ring first came to me, I remember the fear that filled my heart during that panicked chase through the depths of the mountain. It was dark as pitch without the glow from my little elven blade, and all I had to tell me of my pursuer were his anguished cries for his ‘precious’. I was feeling my way more than anything. I didn’t know those tunnels, not like he did. I admit it only because I was an entirely different creature then, but I was terrified. The passage closed in around me, and then all of a sudden I was stuck, and for a too-long moment it seemed no amount of straining and sucking in my stomach would fit me through that narrow gap. The creature Gollum was almost upon me. And then, with a fearful cry, the buttons of my fine waistcoat burst free and I slipped through the crack, falling as I did so. 

The Ring, clasped until then in the sweat-slick palm of my hand, flew free. It came down onto my finger, and in that moment everything changed. 

Instead of the black worse than a moonless night, the world around me was rendered in ghostly form, all colour drained from it, but visible as at twilight. Gollum leapt in after me, but instead of falling on me and dashing my head against the stone as I had feared, he twisted and turned and looked around in frustration, seeing nothing. I gaped at him, not knowing quite whether this was some kind of trick. A pretty poor and unpleasant kind of trick if it was, I thought. 

I worked out pretty sharpish however that I truly was invisible, and that it was the work of the Ring that had come to me so fortunately. I watched the pitiful creature scramble off down the passage-way, and pulling myself to my feet, was quick to follow after him. After all, it was always possible that he would unwittingly lead me right to the exit. And luckily for me, that turned out to be the case. After many twists and turns Gollum paused at a narrow junction, and I could see a change in the light shining down from the left hand side. I had my sword out, just in case I had to use it. I was still unsure as to the limitations of my invisibility. A sound from me might easily draw attention. I even tried to make my breathing as shallow as possible as I crept closer. 

Suddenly the creature ducked back inside our corridor, and with utter amazement at the neatness of the coincidence I saw Thorin’s party running past, sprinting down the passageway and right by us. I took a step forward ready to call out to them before realising how foolish that would be. There was still Gollum to contend with. 

The creature really was pathetic, crouching there whimpering behind a rock. In the twilight world I was able to get a good look at him, which had been impossible in the darkness before. He was pale, and so skinny the knobs of his spine stuck out the length of his back. There was something twisted about him. As I stood there, my sword poised at his neck, I felt a wave of revulsion sweep over me. I had been so terrified of this pitiful little thing. And why? I had a blade, and he had only his hands and loose rocks. 

I drew the sword back, and with a blow much stronger than I had thought myself capable of, took his head clean off. 

I wasn’t expecting the blood. The body slumped to the floor and the surprisingly hot liquid painted a spray across my face. I shuddered and groped blindly for the scrap of dwarvish cloth that had served as my handkerchief the past few weeks, finally finding it and wiping my eyes convulsively. It was my first real taste of murder. I can now appreciate the value of violence when carefully and properly applied, but it would take me some while to come to that place. 

Stepping gingerly over the corpse and the spreading pool of blood, I ran for the exit. 

\----

I managed to follow the trail left by Gandalf and the dwarves down the mountainside, a full and scrambling flight away from the darkness of that pit and the shock of what I had done, so counter to the character of any hobbit. I suppose I was still mostly in shock at that point, acting on instinct more than anything. Still wearing the Ring, the sun overhead was wan and pale, and it gave forth no heat. My fingers were tight around the hilt of my short sword. 

When I finally did catch up with the company, it was to overhear angry words being thrown about, aimed at me, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. It wasn’t the first time I had heard these things said. I was soft and useless, and couldn’t look after myself, and now I was lost into the bargain. As though I should have just let the goblins carry me off with the rest of them? And hadn’t I just found my way out of the mountain by using my own wits, and slain an enemy into the bargain? 

Well! I would show them. With the Ring, I could give them a surprise sure enough when I popped up in their midst. 

Then Thorin spoke. “I’ll tell you what happened,” he said, in that low growl of his. “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door.”

I sank back against a tree. I could hardly deny his words, stated in such a plain fashion; I’d complained enough to myself about the hardships of our quest, some of it out loud were the others must have overheard me, and just before the floor of the cave opened up under our feet I had been willing to leave and head back to Rivendell. In fact, I’d thought that was what Thorin and many of the dwarves wanted, and so I ought to oblige them. I thought that it would make them happy, not having to look out for their incompetent so-called burglar anymore. But now I found that I wanted to continue. I wanted to go on, to help them with their quest. I could show them that I wasn’t a burden, that I was starting to learn how to take care of myself. 

“We will not be seeing our hobbit again,” Thorin said. “He is long gone.” 

I made my decision. I slipped the Ring from my finger and stepped out into full view. “No,” I said, in more defiant tones than I’d meant. “He isn’t.”

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf said, with a great sigh of relief. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life. But whatever has happened to you?”

I followed the direction of his gaze and saw that I still bore my sword unsheathed, and that the blade was bloodied with gore. No doubt I hadn’t really been able to get all of it off my face either, not without the aid of a mirror. Gandalf was not the only one showing concern; the faces of my companions were dismayed, and both Bofur and Thorin had taken several steps towards me as though afraid I was about to keel over at any second. 

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Not my blood.”

“Nor is it the blood of any orc or goblin either,” Thorin said, his hand half raised from his side as though he was thinking of grabbing me and checking me over for wounds. “For they bleed black.”

“It was just some creature that lived in the tunnels,” I said, dismissively. “I’m not hurt, there’s no need to worry. I found my way out just fine, thank you very much.”

“We’d nearly given you up,” Kili said.

“How on earth _did_ you get past all those goblins?” his brother asked. I gave a little laugh thinking of all that had happened over... how long had it been anyway? I slipped the Ring into my pocket with a casual motion. Already some part of me recognised its value, and I was reluctant to tell the dwarves the full story. Thankfully I was spared – mostly – from having to thinking anything up on the fly by Gandalf.

“What does it matter?” he said, with a wide smile. “He’s back!” I should have known at the time that the tricky Istari knew more than he was letting on, but I knew little of wizards then. 

“It matters,” Thorin said, pulling his hand away and glaring at me with something that was not quite anger. “I want to know. Why did you come back?”

It was a fair question – I could have slipped away, and with the power of the Ring, it would not have been too great a challenge to creep back through the web of caves and off towards home, with tales enough to tell of high adventure and danger. Truthfully, I was not even entirely sure myself. But standing there, searching for something that would satisfy the King-in-Exile, I found that the answer was right there before me. 

“I know you doubt me,” I said, “I know you always have. And you’re right, I often think of Bag-End. I miss my books... and my armchair... and my garden. You see, that’s where I belong, that’s home. And that’s why I came back, because you don’t have one; a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back, if I can.” The very words had the weight of an oath behind them. 

I realised then that that was my purpose. To see that the dwarves of Erebor were returned to their rightful homes. A dragon had stolen it, and no-one else in the whole of Middle-Earth, it seemed, had the courage or will to help them regain it. Were there truly no noble beings out there that might have given them aid? It seemed not. Not even the elves, who I had always heard from the tales were wise, and fair, and good, had turned their backs on Thorin and his kin. Small wonder that they hated them. I thought, then, of how I would feel to be driven out of the Shire along with all my neighbours and relations, and a deep anger woke up inside me. I had known it all along, but now it really resonated in a way it hadn’t before. I was angry with the elves, and I was angry with the other dwarvish nations. 

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to think over this realisation in any more depth than that, because at that very moment we heard the howling of wolves, or rather in this case wargs, on the distant heights above us. There was nothing for it but to run, and so run we did, and all thoughts of the quest were driven out of my head in the scramble for safety. 

\----

Stuck in a tree hanging over the edge of a cliff, likely to fall to certain death, orcs and wargs blocking the only clear path through the flames and away, I had an almost irresistible urge to put on the Ring. It made little sense to me at the time; it was not as though being invisible would be a very great help to me in this situation. Even with the benefit of all I know of its powers now, it would not have availed me much then, for I did not know how to use it. In any case, I resisted. The heat of the flames could be felt even from half along the pine’s trunk, and I had enough to be getting on with just hanging on to my precarious hold of the nearest branch. 

The pale orc, Azog the Defiler if I recalled his name right, was howling to his kin in the language of orcs. The pack of wargs prowled at the edges of the fire. I had killed one of them earlier, the second life I had taken with my sword, although it had been more by accident than anything. It had been a beast, a predator, and I had killed it in the heat of the moment, not in cold blood like the creature Gollum. It had been an entirely different experience, with my heart fluttering in my chest with fear and the blood roaring in my ears. 

Then all fell silent. Beside me Thorin was rising to his feet, his boots spread wide on the trunk near my head for stability. What on earth was he doing, I wondered? Surely he didn’t intend to go down there? But I had underestimated his desire for vengeance, his need to strike out and destroy this... this symbol of everything that had gone wrong in the early days after Erebor’s fall. The sparks in the breeze roiling around him like fireflies, he strode down the pine, Orcrist drawn, and charged. 

I knew how good a fighter Thorin was – I had seen it enough times on our journey so far – but even so I found myself deathly afraid for him. He might have had a lot of unkind things to say about me, but neither were they entirely untrue, and I believed that at least part of his harshness was out of a concern for my own safety. Besides, if the stories I had heard from Balin and Bofur were true, he was used to being abandoned by his so-called allies. No wonder he thought the same of me. In any case, I did not want to see him hurt.

The albino warg that Azog rode leapt. Orcrist flashed in the light of the flames, but whatever wound it dealt was not deep. The weight of the warg bore Thorin to the ground, and the beast turned and wheeled to attack him again. Thorin had barely gotten his feet under him before the cruel mace the orc wielded caught him a mighty blow across the chest. I think I cried out in that moment, but in all the confusion it is hard to recall. If it wasn’t for the ancestral mithril mail that I later learned the King kept concealed beneath his scaled steel jerkin, I have no doubt that it would have crushed his ribs and perhaps even killed him outright.

I scrambled upright then. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just knew that I had to do something. Before the passage under the mountains, before the demands this quest had forced me to meet, I would never have even thought about doing something so bold. I would have been paralysed by my fear. Not now. I might die, but I had to help Thorin. I respected him. I cared about him. 

The warg’s massive jaws closed around the King and he yelled in pain. Unable to take my eyes off him, I fumbled blindly at my belt for the hilt of my sword. As my fingers finally found it, the beast tossed Thorin high with a flick of its head and he landed heavily on an outcropping of rock near the edge of the cliff. At a command from Azog, one of the other orcs dismounted and made its way over to the fallen dwarf, a huge cleaver of a blade ready in its hand. But now my own blade was drawn, and light-footed as all hobbits, I charged. 

With no thought for tactics or swordplay I tackled the orc and we grappled. It stank to high heavens even over the burning wood-smoke that filled the air, and it was strong too, frightfully so. But I was fighting for my life and for Thorin’s, and I managed to find my own store of strength from somewhere. I forced my blade, faintly glowing blue, into the orc’s chest. It shuddered and died beneath me. Black blood seeped from the wound, although, I noted distantly, there was much less of it than had sprung from Gollum’s neck. 

I rose to face the rest of the pack, but I did not do so alone. The others of our company joined the battle, and then everything was a confusion of limbs and swords and fur until the piercing cry of a bird of prey split the night air. Eagles, giant eagles, had come to our rescue. 

\----

After we had been dropped off, in some cases literally, at the top of a pillar of rock, and I had received a most unexpected, though quite welcome, embrace from Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf began to lead us towards the home of a man he said he knew nearby, who would be able to supply us with food, since we had none, and treat Thorin’s wounds, which were troubling him much more than he was willing to admit, so much so that he even needed some support from Balin and Dwalin when we were forced to climb down steeper parts of the hill. 

The day began to turn surprisingly hot as it went on, for all that we were still in the foothills of the eternally snow-capped Misty Mountains. The walk was slow going and sweaty, and I was glad indeed when we stopped by the side of a stream so that Balin and Dwalin could force Thorin to rest, for he would not have done so if they hadn’t near dumped him on his backside at the foot of a tree. 

Bofur came over to me then. “You’ll be wanting to give that little knife of yours a clean,” he told me. I looked at him in surprise, for the concept had not crossed my mind. “It might be an elven blade and proof against rust, but that won’t stop it sticking to the inside of your scabbard if you don’t get the blood off.”

“Oh, well yes, you’re right,” I said, pulling it out and noticing that it did not come easily. “Bother, and now I’ve made a mess in there, and I haven’t the faintest clue how to clean _that_ out.” 

“Here, I’ll show you.” 

Bofur led me over to the stream and soon enough my short sword was bright and gleaming once again. I examined my reflexion in the blade, and noticed I was still filthy with gore and dirt on top of that. I had barely noticed it, which was a far cry from how neat and tidy I used to be back in the Shire. I was aware of Thorin watching me as I washed my face clean, though when I looked over at him, he was in conversation with Balin about something or other. There were faint lines of tension around his eyes. I was sure he was in pain, although of course he wasn’t admitting it. 

We did not tarry for very long there, but kept along to the house of this ‘Beorn’, as Gandalf had named him. After a few hours the forest began to open up into grassland, the trees growing fewer and more widely spaced. The air was heavy with the scent of wildflowers, and everywhere it seemed there were birds singing and darting around in the air. It was a very pleasant sight indeed after the mountains, although there was something far more wild about it than the homely scenery of the Shire that I could not help but compare it to. 

Before long we encountered the first of the bees. They were huge things, fat and fluffy and each nearly as long as one of my fingers. They were busying themselves with great patches of clover, all different kinds, which sprung up in the meadows between the trees. A few buzzed over to investigate us, and one even came to sit on Gandalf’s hand when he stretched it out. Our dull and grimy clothes clearly held little interest for them however, and they flew off back to their business, which was something of a relief. 

“Jolly little fellows aren’t they,” Gandalf said, smiling. More like great, fuzzy menaces, I thought to myself, taking in the size of their stingers. “They are Beorn’s bees. He has a fondness for honey, and no doubt we shall be feasting on that tonight.”

Beorn’s home, when we finally came upon it, was made up of a number of large halls with walls of wooden logs and low thatched roofs. There were gardens filled with many plants of vine and vegetables that I recognised from my own garden and others back home, but also plenty that were entirely foreign to me. Out in front of the largest hall was a figure that had to be the man himself. 

Beorn was tall, taller even than Gandalf, and as stoutly built as any dwarf, massively muscled all over and just as hairy too. He was splitting logs into firewood with an axe at least as big as I was. He looked up at the sound of our coming and scowled, swinging the huge hatchet up onto his shoulder and watching us approach with wary eyes. 

“A wizard, a party of dwarves, and one strange little foreign thing,” he said. “I know none of you, and nor do I know what you are doing on my doorstep.”

We all looked at one another, and seemed to reach a silent agreement that Gandalf ought to do the talking. He was meant to know this fellow, after all. 

“I am Gandalf,” the wizard said, “and this is Thorin Oakenshield and his company.”

“Gandalf? Ought that name mean anything to me?”

“Well!” Gandalf said, looking just as put out as when I had failed to recognise him at the very beginning of this adventure. “You know my good friend Radagast the Brown, surely?”

“Aye, him I know. A good fellow, as these things go,” Beorn replied. “And I suppose one wizard is much like another. What business have you here?”

One wizard certainly isn’t much like another, but none of us was about to correct him when it seemed to be the thing that had thawed him towards our presence at least a little. “Hmm, well,” Gandalf began. “You see we have been struck by rather a measure of ill fortune. We were passing through the mountain pass that was to have taken us south of your lands when we were set upon by goblins, and so we have lost all of our supplies and are somewhat out of our way.”

Beorn raised a massive eyebrow. “Set upon by goblins, he says, without any further explanation. How exactly did you come to get away from them then?”

“The tale is a long one,” Gandalf said, leaning on his staff. “And not fit to be told standing out in the open. Perhaps in return for its telling, we might prevail upon your hospitality? Not to mention that one of our number is injured, and his wounds need tending.”

Beorn snorted with laughter. “You have got my interest up, so I suppose you might as well. I have food enough for even a company such as this, and I do very much want to hear your tale.”

Thorin bowed, as much as his injuries would let him. “We are much obliged to you, Master Beorn,” he said. I was a little surprised at how gracious he was being, but then I suppose Beorn was not, after all, an elf, which made all the difference. We followed the huge man inside. I for one, was greatly looking forward to being fed. 

\----

We ate well that night in Beorn’s hall, and the bear-like man spread Thorin’s wounds with some kind of paste that smelt of herbs and honey, which seemed to help him greatly. Our company certainly made the most of the safe harbour as the evening wore on, for although there was no more meat here than there had been at the elves’ table, there was a great deal of fine bread, as well as milk, cream, honey, and a great variety of sweet cakes, some soft, some chewy, some sticky, and all delicious. There was beer too, rich and almost like solid food itself, and the first mead I had ever tasted. We all had our fill, and the dwarves quickly grew merry, and soon the singing started up. None of it was anything I knew, and things only grew more foreign to me when they meandered into songs in Khuzdul, but still the tunes were by turns hearty and haunting, and always fine to listen to. 

As dusk fell we all sat before the fire and listened to Gandalf spin out the story of our journey so far as well as any bard or storyteller might have done. The rest of us had lost our baggage under the mountains, but the wizard had at least kept his, and was generous enough to share out the last of his store of Longbottom Leaf amongst those of us who wanted it. I took my time over my pipe that night, contented and full for the first time since Rivendell, knowing that this would likely be the last good Shire tobacco to be found this side of the mountains. Our host seemed to enjoy Gandalf’s rendering of our tale greatly, much as he had enjoyed the songs of the dwarves before.

Eventually the hour grew late enough to force us to our beds. Beorn directed us to a heap of woollen blankets stored in a massive wooden chest, and whilst we were busy laying these out around the fire, he had a quiet word with Gandalf. Then, looking us over and snorting to himself, he turned and left the hall, striding out into the darkness. Gandalf cleared his throat to get the attention of those who hadn’t looked up at the sound of the door closing. 

“Beorn has some business out in the wilderness tonight,” the wizard said, “but he instructed me to warn you not to step outside before the sun is up, for it is likely to be perilous.”

“No fear of that,” Glóin said. “It’s far too comfortable in here to go wandering off into the dark for no good reason.”

We settled down for the night after that. It wasn’t long before snoring filled the air around me, but despite my full belly I found myself unable to drift off to sleep. I tossed and turned, but it was nothing to do with feeling uncomfortable, for indeed I was near enough the fire to be as warm and cosy as I could wish. No, the truth was I was just restless. The Ring was a heavy weight in my pocket, pressing against my stomach. 

I crept out from under my covers and made my way carefully through between the sleeping forms of the rest of the company. The fire was starting to burn low, and the hall was filled with shadows. I made sure to pick up my sword and strap it firmly around my waist, and then I slipped the Ring onto my finger. 

At once I was back in that ghostly world. The entirety of the hall was visible again, although where shadows might otherwise have fallen there was instead a kind of strange fog. I could see that one of the shutters over the window near the door had been left open a touch. I went over, stood up on the bench that had handily been placed there, and peered out. The moon was up, low over the forest, but even without its light I would have been able to see. The last time I had tried this I had been fleeing for my life, and I had had little time to look around and take stock of this strange way of viewing the world, but now I could look at things properly. 

Things were not, in fact, entirely how they appeared under the light of the sun. The gardens and meadows looked at first glance the same, but peering closer, I saw that they seemed wilder, less cultivated. At times a great shadow in the shape of a bear seemed to move along the rows, and where it walked the vines and leaves waved under their own power, curling grasping tendrils and sticking out thorns that had not been there before. In the east the forest lay as if under a shadow, and on the horizon to the south-east dark clouds gathered, and strange, unnatural lights seemed to glow just on the edge of perception. 

Nor was this a quiet world. Although the snoring of the dwarves and the odd crackle from the fire were muted, on the very edge of my hearing I could detect... something. Like a voice whispering to me. I thought that perhaps if only I strained and listened hard enough, I might be able to make out the words. I closed my eyes and focused in on it with all my might. It was coming from somewhere close by, very close. 

It was coming from the Ring.

My eyes flew open and I stared down at the golden band around my finger. It seemed to glow with light and colour as nothing else in this twilight world did. I began then to have some inkling of the vast capabilities of this, most precious, treasure. I still could not understand what it was whispering to me, not entirely, but there was some sense that if only I kept at it, it would eventually become clear. 

I don’t know how long I was standing at that window looking at the Ring, but suddenly my attention was caught by noise coming from outside. There was a great growling from many throats, and when I turned my head up it was to see dozens of dark shapes coming towards the house from the meadows. Bears, a score or more, and in their midst with a limp something hanging from its jaws was the most massive bear I had ever seen, the size of a house at least. Its eyes were burning like coals, although whether that was real or a product of this ghost world I did not know. 

The bears came and stood in the open courtyard before Beorn’s hall. The huge leader approached the centre of their circle and threw down the thing it held with a violent and contemptuous jerk. Then it stood up on its hind legs, tall as a tree, and threw back its head. I was not sure quite what I was expecting, but it certainly was not for it to begin to shrink down and change, until at last was revealed the form of our host, naked, clad only in shadows. 

Well! Gandalf certainly had not seen fit to mention _that_ when he brought us here! No wonder we were not to walk outside during the night, if things like this were going on. 

Beorn did not speak in the tongues of men to the other bears, but in some strange, growling language. He motioned to one of the larger brown bears which appeared to be dragging something behind it, and it brought up the bound form of an orc, struggling against ropes and biting at a gag. Beorn paced forward and ripped the piece of cloth free, though before the orc could utter more than a couple of what must surely have been curses he clapped one massive hand over its mouth, growling just like the bear he had been so recently. 

“You will tell me what you and your filthy warg were doing in my woods at the Carrock’s foot,” he said, speaking now in Westron.

He released his hand, but got only more foul words for his trouble. Beorn responded by roaring in its face, spittle flying, baring heavy fangs that I was positive he had not had during his time with us that afternoon. 

“Speak orc, or you shall wish you had!”

The thing cringed. “I will speak, Gakh will speak. Yes, yes, mercy!” It gulped several times, its eyes rolling about in its head as it took in the bears surrounding it. “We were searching, searching the woods for the dwarf-filth for Azog, great Azog the Defiler. They are his rightful prey, his to kill. So nearly we had them, up in the mountains, but eagles took them.” The orc spat on the ground at this last part. “Ill luck.”

“I am told they killed the Goblin King as well,” Beorn said. 

The orc licked at his teeth. “That’s true,” he said. “But how does the bear-man know that? Perhaps the dwarf-filth passed this way?”

“Perhaps they did,” Beorn said, baring his teeth again, and then with a suddenness that took me quite off guard, he took hold of the orc’s head and wrenched it clean off. I ducked back down behind the windowsill in shock. I saw once again my sword flashing through the air, Gollum’s head falling to the ground, the spray of blood... 

I did not regret doing it. It had been necessary. But it had still given me a nasty turn afterwards, and I was taking a while to get used to it. I needed to accustom myself to the realities of war and battle like the dwarves of our company were, if I was ever to prove myself as one of them. There would be other things that needed killing on the path to Erebor, other dangers to face. 

I poked my head up again to see that the bears had begun to disperse. The orc’s body lay where it had fallen, and Beorn was down on his knees by the other shape on the ground, whatever he had been carrying when he first arrived. He had out a long knife from somewhere and was cutting into it. Even in the twilight of the Ring-world, I could not see quite what he was up to. 

Well, it seemed I had seen all that there was to be seen this night, at least. And now fatigue was starting to dwell on me as it had refused to before. I slipped down from the bench and padded back to my bed. Perhaps things would become clearer in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

I slept in the next morning as a consequence of my late night wanderings, and when I woke it was to see Bofur standing over me and grinning. “Wake up lazybones,” he said, “or there will be no breakfast left for you at all.”

“What?” I mumbled, raising my head blearily, then scrambling to my feet when it sunk in that he was talking about food. “Breakfast? Where is it?”

“Mostly inside us,” he said, “but there’s a little left out on the veranda. Beorn is nowhere to be found, but there was food set out when we woke up. There’s bread and butter, cheese and scrambled eggs...”

He kept on in a teasing sort of tone but I had already heard enough and headed out with all speed. I was a hobbit after all, and we always wake up hungry. There was enough left for me to scrape together a quite satisfactory meal, and after that I wandered out to see if there was anything of note where the bears had had their meeting. The grass was trampled down in many places, and there was black blood just visible if you knew where to look, but other than that there was little to see.

There was no sign of Beorn all that day, and none of Gandalf either until suppertime. I spend the day wandering around the gardens and listening to more of Balin’s tales over lunch. I stopped in to see Thorin too, who through some miracle had agreed to lay by the fire and rest.

“Ah,” he said when he saw me, smiling as he had done just before hugging me after our escape from Azog, “it is our courageous hobbit! Come and join me. I have not yet congratulated you on the slaying of your first orc.”

I went and sat next to him. He propped himself up on one arm to look at me. The afternoon sun streaked down on us from the smoke-hole in the ceiling high above. “I don’t know if I would call myself courageous,” I said, although I appreciated the compliment. “I didn’t really think about what I was doing. I just knew that I had to do _something_.”

“You might not call yourself a warrior,” Thorin said, clapping me on the shoulder. “But you are certainly shaping up to be one in future. I told Balin at the beginning of our quest that all I asked of our companions was loyalty, honour, and a willing heart, and you have all three.”

I felt myself blushing at his kind words, so different from those he had thrown my way in the past. I supposed that I had changed a great deal since leaving home, and was likely to change a great deal more too as we went on. It could only be a good thing. I wanted to pull my weight as a member of the company.

“We shall have to see that you learn how to use that knife of yours,” Thorin continued. “For although you don’t lack enthusiasm, your skill could use some work.”

“You’ve got that right,” I said, thinking of my wild flailing at Gollum by the deep lake, and again standing between Thorin and Azog’s warg-pack.

“Perhaps... when we leave this place...” Thorin said, oddly hesitant. “I might teach you myself?”

For some reason my heart quickened at the suggestion, and my throat was oddly dry as I replied. “I would like that very much.”

Thorin nodded firmly, and we sat together in a warm and companionable sort of silence for some while after that until Fili and Kili poked their heads through the door and told me to come outside, for Dwalin and Bifur were having a wrestling match, and surely I wanted to see the outcome of that.

\----

Gandalf returned that night in time for the evening meal, although he said nothing of where he had been until after he had eaten. When finally he pushed his plate away, he told us something that dismayed us all very much.

“I am afraid I cannot stay with you all for very much longer,” he said, “indeed, I shall be with you only as far as the borders of the Greenwood, which now goes by the ill name Mirkwood.”

“And do you mean to come back?” Thorin asked angrily. “Or perhaps you have deemed our quest no longer to your liking. Do you hold the contract you signed to so little value?”

“I am not abandoning you,” Gandalf said, sounding rather irritated himself. “But there is business to be seen to nearby that requires a wizard’s attention. Those of my order have responsibilities greater than even your quest, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“But we need you to help us kill the dragon,” Ori said, looking very nervous.

“Oh, I think you will not find it quite the challenge you seem to expect,” Gandalf said, with a twinkle in his eye. I do not know even now quite what he meant by that, for I sincerely doubt he could have foreseen the way _that_ particular story ended. Perhaps he was merely being mysterious in the way of all wizards.

There was much grumbling between the members of the company at this unwelcome news, but apparently Gandalf had not actually sworn to come any further than the Greenwood in either word or the terms of whatever contract he had signed, nor was he expecting any share of the treasure once we eventually claimed it, so there was little anyone could do to convince him to stay. Even I knew that wizards were stubborn, and largely went wherever they pleased.

Eventually Gandalf interrupted the complaints by bringing up the matter of where he had been all day. It turned out that he had been tracking some of the bears from the meeting the night before (although he made no mention of that fact that Beorn was one of them – perhaps he did not wish to trouble us further with the revelation that our host was a shapeshifter) and had followed one to the river near the Carrock, back the way we had come. The dwarves then fell to a discussion of what all this strangeness meant. I said nothing. Beorn’s secret was not mine to reveal, and if Gandalf hadn’t spoken of it I felt, at the time, that he must have a good reason for it.

When we did finally turn in for the night, I managed to fall asleep along with the others, although I did wake at some point during the night to hear snuffling and growling coming from outside once again. I didn’t get up to see what it was. We were due to leave in the morning, and I wanted one good night’s sleep before we set off on our journey again.

\----

Beorn had reappeared the next morning, and seemed to be in good spirits at breakfast. He was generous with provisioning us for the road, giving us strong, well-made packs filled with solid cakes baked with honey, seeds, and nuts that he promised would keep for a good long while. He also gave us the loan of fourteen ponies and one horse for Gandalf. The animals apparently lived wild on his land and were of uncommon intelligence. We were to leave them at the border of the forest, and they would find their own ways home.

He also gave us some good advice about the forest we were to pass through. Although it had once been fine and fair, a shadow had come over it in the past months, the same shadow that Radagast had brought us news of. The game was no longer good to eat, and many sources of water had turned foul. There was a great river that came down from the mountains of Mirkwood that he had been told (I suspected by his bears, although I didn’t know if they could change their shape as he could, or were bears in truth) now put a terrible enchantment on any who so much as touched its waters, casting them into a sleep of forgetfulness that it was nigh impossible to wake from.

He also told our company about a little-used road further to the north of the one that Thorin had originally intended to lead us by. It went closer to the elven realm of King Thranduil than I suspected he was comfortable with, but it was much more direct, and also a little safer if Beorn was to be believed. But one of the things he emphasised above all else was that whatever way we took, we must not stray off the path, for dark and dangerous things lurked under the eaves of the forest, drawn by whatever evil had invaded it, and we would surely perish.

We set out around mid morning, and I finally found out what had happened to that orc and Beorn’s other prize as we passed a pair of tall chestnuts on the trail east. A tall pointed stake had been driven into the earth between the trees and the orc’s head impaled upon it. A warg pelt was nailed to the left hand tree, and the two corpses hung, strung up by their back legs, from the branches of that on the right. I stared at the gory sight, unable to look away. Our host was a dangerous man indeed, but, I suspected, only to those who crossed him. I was just glad that Gandalf had persuaded him we were not trespassers; else I hate to think what might have happened to us.

\----

The gate to the northern road was four days ride away. When we camped for the first night I had my first lesson with Thorin under the light of the setting sun, practising basic movements and footwork with branches in place of blades. When I finally lay down for the night I was bone-tired and covered in sweat, yet even so sleep was once again elusive. The Ring was weighing heavily on my thoughts. I had a deep curiosity to know just what it was trying to whisper to me.

It was not long before I gave into the urge to rise and put it on. The twilight world snapped into place around me, and the whisper started to murmur its way into my ears. I did not go wandering, merely sat cross-legged upon my blankets with my hands folded in my lap, playing with the Ring upon my finger, twisting it back and forth, listening.

_Tell me what you are,_ I thought. _Tell me what you can do._

It seemed that the quiet words might be a little louder than the last time I had heard them, but I was not sure. I frowned. It did not seem as though this was going to be a quick process; rather the reverse. Whatever answers the Ring held, wherever it had come from, whatever its powers were, I would have to coax them out of it. There was something almost... stubborn about it, although it seemed at the time foolish to apply emotions to an inanimate object.

But of course, the Ring was far from inanimate, as I was to find out.

Before I finally went to sleep that night I looked up and saw a shape against the horizon of a nearby knoll. It was a great bear, black with glowing eyes. Beorn was still keeping his eye upon us. Yet I felt more comforted than afraid. He was a thing of the wild, not a thing of evil, I recognised that much. We were under his protection. There was little need to fear.

I rested well and deeply that night, and dreamed of fire.

\----

Every night until we reached the eaves of Mirkwood, after my lessons with Thorin, I spent hours focusing on the Ring. Each time the words grew clearer, until at last I began to be able to make out a few of them – ‘rule’, and ‘darkness’, and ‘find’. I was getting closer, and it made all the effort satisfying. I knew that it could not be much longer before I unlocked what was surely only the first of many mysteries that the Ring concealed. And I did not overly mind the loss of sleep. For whatever reason I seemed to need it much less than I was used to.

We found the forest gate on the morning of the fourth day since leaving Beorn’s halls, as we had expected. We sent the ponies back then, although none of us was exactly enthusiastic about it. The provisions we split amongst ourselves appropriate to our strength. Where once I might have complained about the heavy load, now I was almost glad of it, for it meant that we had food enough to last us a good long while, barring accident, and I could now appreciate the value of that.

“I am sorry to say I must leave you here,” Gandalf told us at this point, watching us make our preparations, still on horseback. “I will be taking this faithful fellow back by a longer route – one good Beorn knows about, let me assure you.”

“I don’t suppose you’re likely to tell us what is so urgent that you must see to it right away?” Thorin asked.

Gandalf tapped the side of his nose. “A wizard never reveals his secrets,” he said.

“But it has something to do with this shadow that has fallen over the Greenwood, has it not?” Balin asked. Gandalf made no reply other than a smile. It was clear enough to me that the elderly dwarf had hit on the truth of it, but I was not to hear any more of the Istari’s doings to the south for some time, and even then it was at least half by conjecture. But that is getting ahead of myself.

“Now I bid you farewell,” Gandalf said, turning his horse around. “Good-bye to all of you. Remember to stay on the path, otherwise you are likely never to find it again, and there will be no wizard coming along to help you out of trouble next time.”

“Is this really the best route to take?” I asked him, looking with an uncertain eye at the dark path beneath low, gnarled branches draped with ivy. “Couldn’t we just go around?”

“Not unless you wanted to go many hundreds of miles out of your way,” Gandalf replied. “And it would be no safer. To the north are the Grey Mountains, the haunts of many tribes of goblins and orcs, and to the south is Dol Guldur, the dark ruins of a stronghold that was once home to a very great evil. No Bilbo, stick to the path, and with some luck you all might come out the other side alive.” And with this he smiled again, and rode off, calling back any number of ‘good-byes’ to us and leaving me feeling rather worse than I had before he had spoken.

“No doubt we will see him again when it is most inconvenient for us and most convenient for him,” Thorin said, shouldering his pack and checking that Orcrist was firmly belted to him. “You never know with wizards.”

Thus we set off beneath of the bows of a pair of entangled oaks that made up the gate to the forest, into the depths of Mirkwood the Great.

\----

It was very dark in the forest, as we soon discovered. The path wound its way between the boles of huge trees, narrow enough to force us into single file and bounded on either side by a few bushes and vines with small numbers of dark leaves that soaked up what little sun there was. There was grass, of a sort, but patchy and dry. More often there was some kind of fungus growing, slimy and horrid-looking, and thick carpets of dead leaves. I had little trouble understanding why it had earned the name Mirkwood. I could see only a little way in the dim light, and there was a foul feeling about the place.

As we continued on, I began to become aware that for all the ill aspect, there was life here. A few times I spotted black-furred squirrels leaping from branch to branch over our heads, or pausing half way up tree trunks to watch us passing, their little eyes beady-bright and strangely unnerving. There were noises from the forest, animal noises of grunting, shuffling and high-pitched calls that sounded like nothing I had ever heard before. No bird-song though. Anything that could fly seemed to have deserted the wood. I thought I spied massive cobwebs as well, strung between trees off in the murk, but I could have been wrong. Certainly there were none on the path, or even too near it.

The very air was heavy, still and quiet without a breath of wind. It seemed to bear down upon all of the company. Even Fili and Kili, who could normally be counted on to provide a light-hearted comment when the situation called for it, and often when it didn’t, were silent and pale.

“It might be as dark as a mine,” Bofur said to me, for I was walking in front of him and behind Thorin, “but it has none of the charm. I think I even prefer those goblin infested tunnels.”

“What do you expect of a forest that is home to elves?” Thorin growled, glancing back at us. “No doubt it is particularly inhospitable to any dwarves that set foot in it.”

I was pretty sure that none of this was the doing of elves, but I wasn’t about to say so. It had been clear even after the first few weeks of travelling with the King-in-Exile that he could carry a grudge like even my blasted relatives the Sackville-Bagginses might have hesitated at, and I certainly was not the hobbit to change his mind.

We went on in this way, sweating in the heat of late summer, drinking only very sparingly from the water-skins we had filled before entering the forest, until the light began to fade and it became hazardous to go on any further. There was no handy clearing to make camp in, and the words of Gandalf were still very fresh in all our minds to risk going off even a little to one side or the other to look for one. We had to make do with the strip of clear, dry, ground the path gave us. The tangled roots of the trees to either side were too gnarled and uncomfortable to sleep on, and although there were not many bushes or shrubs, the dead leaves that blanketed the earth were damp with some unpleasant, odorous slime and would quickly have soaked through our blankets.

It was too early for sleep. The darkness had come upon us faster here than it would have out in the open. Glóin, Dori, Nori, Fili and Kili went off up and down the path for a short way to find firewood, but came back empty-handed. What deadwood there had been was wet with the same substance that slicked the leaves, seemingly the produce of the evil-looking fungus that grew everywhere, or riddled with beetles and other crawling things.

“We may as well continue with your sword lessons,” Thorin told me. “If nothing else, it might provide some entertainment for the night.”

I sighed. “I’m truly as pathetic as all that?” Mind, it did not bother me as much as it would have before the journey under the mountains. Even if I didn’t know how to wield my sword properly, that hadn’t stopped me killing things with it.

Thorin cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed for some reason. “I did not mean to say... I meant no harm by it. You have proved yourself in battle and I would not have you think I was making fun of you.”

“Oh, no fear. I know I probably look a right sight,” I replied. “But that’s what this is all about, isn’t it, and I’m very grateful that you’re taking the time to show me how to fight properly.”

“Think nothing of it,” Thorin said gruffly. “Now, let’s see how you are getting on.”

I suspect that our practise that evening probably did offer a great deal of entertainment to the other members of our company. They certainly seemed to enjoy shouting out tips and encouragement of their own at me as I tried to fend off Thorin’s skilled attempts to poke me in the ribs with the sharp end of a stick (one we had fortunately happened to bring with us, although it wasn’t enough by itself to give up to make a fire) using a wooden spoon borrowed from Bombur.

Oin was on first watch that night, for all the good it did. By that point things had gotten so dark that it was impossible to see a hand waved in front of your face. It was with a great deal of relief that I slipped the Ring on and saw the world around me once again, even if it was only in shades of grey. To my surprise, the Ring seemed to pulse with energy here, as though something had woken it up. Sitting gazing at it, I had the strangest sense that it was looking around, like some ghostly presence within the simple golden band was peering at the forest, stretching out its awareness, searching for something.

_What on earth are you doing, you strange thing?_ I asked it, frowning. For a moment that attention was focused on me, and I nearly flinched as a sudden image flashed before my eyes. A great, lidless, eye made of fire, slit-pupilled like a cat. It looked me over contemptuously, then turned away again. I found myself growing angry. What did this thing think it was? Alright, we hobbits are hardly the most fearsome creatures to look upon, but that didn’t mean we weren’t deserving of respect.

Although I did not fully understand the connection between the Ring and I at that time, it did not stop me being in some way aware that it existed. I channelled all my anger down that thin thread, focussing in on the image of that eye and _willing_ it to hurt. I wasn’t going to have a piece of jewellery thinking it was better than me! Something screamed, high-pitched, and the _thing_ , whatever it was, that lived in the Ring retreated, curling up into a little ball around my finger.

It was muttering to itself, but now I could hear it. Now I knew what it was. In a language unfamiliar and in Westron, it recited a little couplet to itself.

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

_ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

_One Ring to rule them all, one Ring to find them,_

_One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them._

_And that’s what you are then?_ I asked it. _This ‘One Ring’?_

_Yes, I am Mairon’s Ring,_ it hissed at me. _And you are an usurper! Mind like silver! Mind like a mirror! Nothing to grasp! I should never have chosen you. Take me south, take me south I tell you! My true master is near, I can feel him. I must go to him. We must be one once more!_

_We aren’t going south,_ I told the Ring. _We’re going east. And I should think that I am your master now, since I picked you up, and since it is my finger that you’re on._

It didn’t make any reply to that, but I could feel it sulking. Well! It seemed that this was much more than just a simple magic ring that I had laid my hands on. I didn’t know exactly what it was capable of yet, but I was sure it was a lot more than just turning me invisible. Somehow I had found a valuable treasure, beneath _a_ mountain at least, even if not the one we were heading towards.

Well indeed! What was I going to do with this Ring now?

\----

The next night I had first watch, which I didn’t mind, as it gave me time to work on mastering the Ring, and in any case wearing it I could actually see out into the dark, which was more than could be said for any other member of our company. However it quickly became apparent that I would make little progress at this point. The Ring was sulking. No matter how much I coaxed or prodded at it, I could not rouse it or persuade it to talk to me, and I did not yet wish to try pain. That seemed a little unfair to it, although perhaps it would become necessary in time. For the moment I was content to let it do as it wished. I had a number of things to think over anyway.

Despite the many long days we had traveled, walking or riding, often with long periods of silence where there was nothing to do but look at the landscape we were travelling through and consider our own thoughts, I had not really contemplated the most recent and rather significant events in my life in any great detail. Hobbits are not generally known as particularly deep thinkers, and the most philosophy we have ever concerned ourselves with is the importance of food and drink to a quiet and comfortable life. That was my heritage, on the Baggins side, and even the Tooks were more known for doing strange and adventurous things, rather than commenting upon them afterwards.

Now, however, it struck me as a little strange that I had barely reflected upon it at all. Oh, there had been a few moments, but for the most part I had put it to the back of my mind to be chewed over by my sub-conscious like a tough and grisly piece of meat. I suppose I had been more concerned with the puzzle that the Ring had posed to me. Looking out into the ghostly forest now, utterly still but rife with the far off noise of unfamiliar animals, I brought these events back out to be looked over more closely.

If you had asked me to name one thing that was least found in the character of a hobbit, the only reason murder would not have sprung immediately to mind is precisely because it was so unthinkable. We are a gentle folk, for the most part, although fierce when roused, if I and a few of the Tookish lads I have come to know since my rise to power are any example (I refer to Frodo’s cousins, and of course, his fondest and most loyal companion, Samwise Gamgee – a more able bodyguard I have never seen). That I had spilled the blood of a thinking, talking creature, however pitiful, was still something of a shock to me. But then, I rationalised, the only reason that hobbits had not done such a thing in decades was that we had no need to. Gandalf himself had reminded me of the tales of my ancestors who had fought goblins and orcs in defence of the Shire. And I had killed both Gollum and that orc of Azog’s for the same kind of reasons.

Gollum had threatened to eat me, after all.

I like to think of myself as a practical-minded fellow, and so it was not too much work to reassure myself that I had done only what needed to be done, and even if it was something that most of the Shire would have roundly disapproved of, they would have disapproved of adventures in general, and this was shaping up to be rather exciting and certainly fascinating and even perhaps profitable in the end, so what did they know anyway.

My dwarven comrades certainly didn’t have any problems with killing things that needed to be killed, and since they had rather more experience with the whole adventuring business than I did, I would just have to follow their example.

As for this business with the Ring, the One Ring, as it had told me it was called... It may have belonged to this Mairon fellow once upon a time, but it was clear enough that he was either dead by this point, or had lost it a long time ago, so it was not as though it could really be called _his_ anymore. In any case I _was_ a burglar now, so stolen property was really my bailiwick and so it _ought_ to be in my hands. I did not entirely trust the Ring either when it said that its master was still alive and residing somewhere to our south. Nor did I know what to make of all this about it ‘choosing’ me somehow, or about the condition of my mind. Certainly I wasn’t about to go gallivanting off to take it back to Mairon, whoever he was, if he did exist.

__Now that I put some thought to it, hadn’t Gandalf told me about some dark fortress belonging to an evil spirit or sorcerer of some kind, located in the south? Maybe it really was possible that Mairon did live still, in some form or another. Even if that was true though, I had no intention of giving anything to anyone that Gandalf had so clearly said was bad news. Oh no, I would be staying well away from him, if I could very much help it! There would be enough of that kind of thing when we came across Smaug._ _

__Indeed, that was just another reason why it was so important that I came to grips with the Ring’s powers. If we really did end up having to fight a dragon, we would likely need all the help we could get. And even if whoever had owned the thing was an unpleasant sort, the Ring itself was surely just a kind of tool, no more good or evil than a sword, merely dependant on whose hands were wielding it. My hands ought to be capable enough._ _

__So that all made a great deal of sense, to my mind. I had made as much sense of things as I was able, and it all seemed very logical and sensible. I would do what was necessary for the good of the Company, and the Ring would just have to shut up and like it. If this Mairon showed up trying to take it back (though quite how he would find out I had no idea) I would just have to give him a sharp sting with my sword and tell him very firmly that it was hardly my fault if he was so careless with his possessions._ _

__With all this settled and my thoughts at peace, I made myself comfortable until it was time to wake Dori for his turn on watch. The night was tolerably cool, and I was secure in the knowledge that my decisions up until now had been the right ones. Yes, this quest was actually going quite well at the moment!_ _


	3. Chapter 3

The next day we finally managed to find some firewood that was dry enough to burn, which was a stroke of luck. Two nights without light were hard enough to bear, and there had been some thought given to trying to fell one of the smaller trees, if they could find one that was suitable, or perhaps to lop off some low-lying branches. Dwalin’s axes would have been quite up to the task, but it would have taken up valuable travelling time during the day, and been impossible in the pitch darkness of Mirkwood’s nights – too easy to miss, and perhaps cause some injury that could not then be tended until morning. A little before sunset however, Kili’s keen eyes spotted a fallen tree a little way off the path, but close enough that Thorin felt safe enough to give permission to inspect it. The dead branches had not yet become prey to mould or dampness from the earth, and were much easier to break than those living.

Enough was collected at that point that we each ended up carrying a reasonable amount stuffed wherever about our persons we could fit it, thrust under the straps of our packs, tucked into belts, tied into bundles and slung over shoulders, even simply cradled in our arms. It was awkward, and made me somewhat inclined to grumble, although I resisted the impulse, so it was a good thing that we only had another hours walk before the light once again became too dim to go on.

“Get the fire started,” Thorin ordered, as one by one we dropped our loads in the centre of the piece of path we had chosen for our campsite. Bombur got out his flints and started to sweep a space clear of leaves and moss, doing his best to uncover the stone and gravel base of the trail, long overgrown since the time it was first made. Kindling we had, it seemed, and it was not long at all before the flames rose up. I found it surprisingly comforting, considering the fact that with the Ring the darkness was no obstacle to me, but then I suppose in the moment it reminded me rather of home, of nights sitting toasting bread on a fork by my hearth before I went to bed, or reading books that I just couldn’t put down. It was a little taste of the Shire, the more so because we had been without for a few nights. Odd, how much a difference those two nights made.

Thorin watched the process from a little distance, his arms crossed over his chest. Although his gaze followed what Bombur was doing, his thoughts seemed to be far away. Probably fixed on the Lonely Mountain, as they so often were, the prize at the end of our journey. I went over and cleared my throat loudly. When this failed to get any reaction, quite without thinking about it, I nudged him in the side, hard enough to be felt through his armour. Of course after I’d done it I realised that one hardly goes around elbowing royalty, but he just blinked as though coming out of a trance and looked at me. 

“Um,” I stammered for a moment, still aghast at my own temerity. He might be teaching me swordplay, but that did not mean we were friends. After all, it was only a week ago he had a very low opinion of me indeed. “Are we going to have another of my lessons tonight?”

“Yes,” he said. “It is well that you reminded me. Indeed, perhaps you are ready to start accustoming your arm to the weight of a real weapon.” 

Personally I did not believe that my fumbling attempts at fending off his attacks had progressed that much, but I couldn’t deny that the sticks we practised with were much, much lighter than my own blade. It might have been of elven make, but for all the grace and elegance of their people, elves were hardly weaklings. Whether it was a letter-opener or the first blade of some young elfling, its owner would not have had the trouble I did wielding it. 

I _had_ noticed myself becoming stronger over the course of our travels. It was all this walking, carrying heavy packs. I’d enjoyed strolling in the countryside at home, but it hardly compared to going from morning to night with only a rest for lunch and perhaps for a small fortifying snack if I was lucky. No second breakfast, brunch, afternoon tea or supper either. Small wonder I had lost weight and put on, if not quite muscle, then a certain sinewy-ness. It _had_ been hard at first, but with all the excitement of nearly being killed by orcs and wargs and whatever Gollum had been, fewer meals didn’t seem like such a terrible hardship in the grand scheme of things. 

“What would you have me do with it?” I asked Thorin. “I’m not sure it would be wise to have me waving it about if you only have a stick, and I am sure to be clumsy enough to drop it and cut half my fingers off if I have to try and fend off Orcrist.”

Thorin laughed at that, a gruff chuckle that seemed almost surprised out of him. “I do not mean to have you using that blade in combat Bilbo, at least not quite yet. You remember the exercises I had you do at the beginning; merely repeat those for now, and we shall see how long you can last before your arm tires.”

With a little shock of surprise, I wondered if this had been the first time he had actually used my first name. Usually it was Master Hobbit, or Master Burglar, or Mister Baggins. Not Bilbo. Something in my stomach gave a little flutter, but I put it down to not having eaten yet.

I took off my jacket for ease of movement, since it was warm enough with the fire and the remaining heat of the day to go without, and drawing my sword, began to go through the basic motions of attacking and blocking over and over under Thorin’s watchful eye. My waistcoat and shirt were decidedly looser around the middle than they had been at the start of this trip, but I still had a respectable amount of paunch. ‘Never trust a thin hobbit’, as my mother used to say. 

I was just starting to work up something of a sweat and a growing burn in my arms when something like a large moth fluttered past my face. I brushed it aside, but it was quickly followed by another, and then another. In moments the air was full of them, whirling around the campfire and plunging into the flames where they burnt up with loud pops. I yelled as they swarmed past my head, getting tangled in my hair, grazing past my cheeks with their horrid-feeling wings. I wasn’t the only one. I heard swearing in Kuzdul.

“It’s the light!” Bofur shouted, or at least I think it was his voice. “The fire is drawing them in!”

I fumbled my way towards the campfire, half-blinded by the thicket of dark flapping wings, and then bit by bit the light went out. Bifur and Bombur had scattered the burning logs with spear and ladle, and doused the embers in dirt. Blackness overtook everything, but the noise of fluttering gradually faded away, and there were no longer nasty insect wings brushing against my skin. 

“What _was_ that!” somebody shouted.

I reached for the Ring in the pocket of my waistcoat and slipped it on. The Company was scattered around our little stretch of the trail, fumbling in the dark to find each other. Only half of the beds had been laid down; the fire had only been on for a little more than half an hour, and we had expected to have its light for the rest of the night. Looking up at the trees I could see a last few moths fluttering around in the branches, but mostly the air was clear again.

“More of the forest’s evil,” Thorin said. “And now we’re back in this unnatural darkness that defeats even a dwarf’s eyes.”

Everyone managed to find each other again, and enough organisation was reached to start getting the camp in order. There was not time for much of this however before yet more trouble came to call. Ori looked up from where he was setting out his bedroll and let out a great yell, stumbling backwards and falling on his rear. 

“Look,” he cried, “there’s eyes between the trees!”

Not just eyes. I wasn’t sure exactly what the others were able to make out, but with the ghostly sight that the Ring gave me I could see that there were animals everywhere. Deer, foxes, badgers, wolves, wild boar, and wildcats packed between the trees, squirrels filling their branches, and lurking behind them all, something chitinous and insectoid that I could not fully make out. Nor did I want to. Their eyes glowed as Beorn’s had, but this light was somehow unclean and unpleasant. It made the skin tighten along my spine, and the hair on my feet rise up. The silent watchers did not move or make any sound, despite the shouts of fear and astonishment from the Company. 

“Stand ready,” Thorin called. Orcrist was drawn, softly glowing to my eyes with the same kind of light that my blade gave out when goblins were near. I realised that it must be some marker of their elvish origin that the Ring was letting me see. 

All of the dwarves had their weapons in their hands now, even Ori with that little slingshot of his. Thorin shouted out to me. “Bilbo, are you well? Follow the sound of my voice!” 

It was not as though been very far away from him when Ori called out, and of course I could see perfectly well. Nor as far as I could see did we appear to be in any immediate danger, but I couldn’t tell him that without explaining all about the Ring, and I was reluctant to do that until I understood all about it myself. I trotted over to him and touched his shoulder lightly to let him know where I was. 

“Here I am,” I said, and was rather unceremoniously grabbed and shoved behind the dwarven prince. By means of a number of quiet words in Khuzdul, before I quite knew it the others had formed a circle around the burned out remains of our campfire, and I was in the middle of it. I felt rather displeased. Hadn’t I already proved that I wasn’t quite as useless in a fight as they had all thought? Although perhaps after watching my less than outstanding performance during Thorin’s lessons, they believed they had reason to be concerned. 

It was a long and tense time after that before anyone started to relax. As far as I could tell none of the wildlife moved at all during however long it was. Their eyes kept glowing in that unnerving way, as if their stillness was not unnatural enough. But even the toughest dwarf wasn’t up to standing wary and ready for battle for the whole night, and since no attack came, eventually Thorin had to admit that at least some of them ought to get some rest. 

The watch was tripled that night, and as I slipped the Ring off and stowed it back in my pocket so that I would not be invisible if the sun rose before I did, I saw the eyes, just the eyes, glowing in the darkness. Like a hundred tiny lanterns, like fireflies but that they did not move. 

I confess I did not sleep well.

\----

We saw no sign that we were being watched or followed during the next day, but that night the eyes were there once again even though Thorin had made the decision that we would not light a fire. It seemed we had gotten the attention of some force within Mirkwood, and now we had it, it would not easily look away. 

The Ring was still in its moody silence, but given what had happened, I knew I had to talk to it. If persuasion would not work, I would simply have to try pain again, if that was what it took to get a reaction. Thus that night, ignoring the burning and tiredness in my arms from the sword practise Thorin had once again put me to, I sat with my hands in my lap, cradling the Ring where it sat on my finger. 

_We are going to talk, you and I,_ I told it, in the firmest way I knew how. This was important, and the stubborn streak in me wasn’t going to stand for being ignored any more. 

I got no reply, but then I wasn’t expecting one quite yet. It was a funny little quirk of the mind that allowed me to connect my thoughts, my will, to the Ring, as though I had grown insubstantial limbs, tendrils almost. As a creeping vine that winds across the earth as it grows, so was the link that bound us. I felt for the roots of that vine in the back of my head, and there it was, right where I had left it. 

Hobbits are not much given to anger, more a very strong irritation if the situation calls for it, such as your nice, tidy home being invaded by unexpected dwarves. However it is also true that hobbits do not generally have much to be angry about, other than those little disagreements that arise between family members, or unfriendly neighbours. Since coming on this adventure I had been exposed to such violence and unfamiliar danger and things entirely out of my scope of knowledge save that found inside books, that anger was not quite the stranger it once was. I thought about how I’d felt being chased by orcs and wargs, about the surge of emotion that had quite taken me over seeing Thorin in danger, about how terrible it must be to be without hearth and home for so long that your young kin were not even born when it was lost... 

Yes, I thought of all that, and anger came easily. I fed it, hot and burning, down the length of that insubstantial link, and felt the Ring scream. It writhed in agony, turning serpentine coils within the length of itself. I did not particularly like doing this to it, but it hadn’t left me with much other choice.

 _Only do what I say and all this can stop,_ I told it. 

_False master!_ the thing whimpered, _Not Mairon my maker. And it expects me to obey it? A tiny mortal worm grubbing in the dirt instead of a glorious being of eternal flame? I have not stooped so low!_

 _I rather think you have,_ I said hotly. _After all, I own you now, I found you in the gloom and you might have stayed down there for another hundred years or more if I hadn’t. I’d call_ that _grubbing in the dirt, not living in a nice smial. I can keep fighting with you until a dragon eats me or something else unfortunate happens, or you can do what I tell you to!_

_No!_

Well, what was I supposed to do about that except keep on hurting it? I didn’t see any other way of proceeding. Of course, it got rather tiring to keep on being angry after a while, so I had to give up and go to bed. Still, I had a slight feeling that I was wearing the Ring down, so I felt that I had managed to get something done that night. 

\----

Things went on in a similar fashion for the next week or so. The utter darkness of the night coupled by the watchful eyes was growing tiresome for all of the Company, if least so on myself. We still had food, but we had not even reached the river that we had been warned of yet and the packs were half empty. Water too was becoming a worry. We had not anticipated the heat of the close and stifling air under the thick foliage, and so we needed much more than was sustainable. I knew the responsibility of it was weighing heavily on Thorin and Balin. 

As the only one of us with a bow, Kili tried several times to bring down one of the squirrels that we occasionally saw during the day, as did Ori with his slingshot. It was no easy task, for they were fast, very fast indeed, but eventually one fell pierced by a dwarven arrow. Bombur was allowed to set a fire during the day to cook a stew from it with a little of our precious water, but when tasted it was foul and rank like it had been sitting in the sun for days. I tried my best to force it down, as did everyone else, for food was food, but even my hobbit hunger couldn’t keep it in my stomach. I went off a little way to be sick behind a tree. 

It was at the end of this week that we reached the river. It was wide; too far to jump even had any of us been Gandalf’s height and thus had his long legs. It flowed slowly, a lazy sprawl of dark, deep water. Just the sight of it made my throat tight for a drink; we had been on short rations the past day, and I knew that was only sure to continue. It had been roughly two weeks since we entered the forest, and being very careful we might just make it another two, if we were lucky. 

“It looks so lovely,” Bofur sighed, echoing my thoughts. “Pity it’s cursed.”

“How to get across, that’s the problem,” Balin said, stroking the forks of his beard. 

“Looks like there used to be a bridge here.” Gloin pointed to the rotting remains of pillars and planks that I had taken for broken tree stumps and decaying branches. “Can’t ford it, of course, if that man spoke true.”

“We have no reason to doubt his word,” Thorin said, although I could see he wished otherwise. I was beginning to find it a little easier to read him due to all the time we were spending together. I went up to the verge to take a closer look. It was getting on towards inevitable night, and the far bank was shadowed and difficult to make out. I was tempted to take out the Ring for a better look, but it wasn’t yet dark enough to hide something as obvious as my invisibility. 

I’m not sure quite what it was that caused me to spot the boat. Perhaps a trick of the light, a passing breeze stirring leaves enough to let the fading rays of the sun through. Or perhaps it was a little of the Ring’s magic, already starting to cling to me. Either way, there it was, our way across. 

“There’s a boat over there,” I called out to the others. “Though quite how we’re going to get it over _here_ I don’t know.”

Thorin, Fili and Kili came to stand next to me, each peering out into the quickly gathering gloom. “I think I can just about make it out,” Kili said. “Yes, about twelve or so yards, where the bank bulges out a little.”

“I can see nothing,” Thorin said, “but do you think you could throw a line that far, Kili?”

“If not,” Fili said, “I’ll throw, and he can guide me.”

Decision made, I was astonished at how quickly the dwarves burst into motion, fishing around in packs for some odd bits of metal which Bofur bent into curved hooks with his mattock, six or seven casual blows which made the thing look much easier than it must have been. These three hooks were bound together with heavy wire that Bifur appeared to have been keeping in his pockets, and attached to a rope. Grappling hook thus assembled, Kili got ready to throw it.

It took several attempts, but eventually the young dwarf managed to get it caught on something in the boat. A few hearty tugs on the line proved that it wasn’t about to slip off in the middle of towing it over, and so everybody took a hold of the rope. 

“It might be tethered to the bank,” Dwalin said. “But I’ll wager if so, strong dwarvish rope and dwarvish muscle will pull it free.”

He proved to be correct in both the particulars of that. With three great heaves the boat came free and scudded over the water towards us with unexpected speed. Not being of much muscle or weight, I was not pulling on the rope and thus was free to dart forwards and catch it before the hook slipped loose. 

“We shall have to go by fours,” Thorin said, inspecting the little craft. “It is not big enough for more. Although perhaps it is would be best if Dwalin and Bombur go together and last.”

“I’m always last, and I don’t much like it,” Bombur replied. 

“There must be some downsides to your commendable stoutness,” Bofur told his brother, smiling. 

“True, true,” Bombur agreed, and said no more about it. 

Once again the hook was thrown across the river, although by Fili this time for the extra few yards his arm could propel it. Tangled in tree branches and anchored on our side of the water by Bifur’s boar spear driven the length of its blade into the earth, it served very well as a line by which to pull ourselves across. It reminded me rather of Bucklebury Ferry, which I had used several times visiting relatives in that part of the Shire, if rather more precarious. 

It seemed as though we should all get across without incidence, but unfortunately fate, as ever it seemed, was not so kind to us. Dwalin had retrieved Bifur’s spear and had wound the rope up in the bottom of the boat while he and Bombur came over. He had just jumped out onto the bank with it in his arms when there came the sudden sound of hooves beating on the path ahead. A white hart came charging towards us – no ordinary beast either, for its hide shone with the light of the full moon. It might not have been touched by the dark power of the south, but it was touched by _some_ power all the same.

“Fili, quickly,” Thorin commanded, and when his nephew didn’t take up his bow with enough speed, the dwarven prince snatched it from his hands, fitted an arrow with a practised ease that I would not have expected from him, and let fly. It was a good shot, and it took the beast in the breast. It faltered for a moment, and then gathering its legs beneath it, sprang so high and so far that it leapt quite across the river. It disappeared into the gloom beneath the trees, but its hoof beats soon faltered and grew silent. 

It was then that I noticed what had happened to Bombur, and shouted out loud. “Bombur has fallen in! Bombur is drowning!” He must have had the bad luck to have been just climbing out of the boat when the deer brushed past him in its flight, putting him off balance and letting his footing slip from beneath him. 

How conscious he still was at that point I do not know, but we could see him floating in the current, and he did not sink. Bifur grabbed the grappling hook out of Dwalin’s hands and threw it to his cousin. Whether it was the last moment before the sleep claimed him, or just some natural reflex, Bombur’s hand fastened around the rope all the same, and everyone helped to draw him back to solid ground. 

Soaking wet and fast asleep, he was pulled from the waters. The curse Beorn had warned us of had claimed him, and the boat had vanished entirely downstream, taking two of the packs and water flasks with it. On such short rations as we were, this was a loss we could sorely take. And with the boat gone, we couldn’t venture back over the river to recover the hart Thorin had killed for its meat. In short, we were a very sorry lot. 

“Well what do we do now?” Kili asked, still looking rather put out from having his bow snatched. “Is there any way to wake him up or do we have to drag him around?”

Bifur said something that sounded rather unfriendly in Khuzdul. Kili looked mutinous. For myself, I was beginning to wonder if – were I able to get the Ring to cooperate with me – there might not be something I could do. This curse was meant to hail from whatever evil thing Gandalf said lurked in the south, and while I could not be sure there was any link there with what the Ring claimed was its old master, magic was magic. Gandalf could not help us here, but perhaps the Ring might know some counter-charm or remedy we could use. 

“We must fashion something to carry him,” Thorin said. “Dwalin will cut some staves, and with my cloak I have no great need of my bedroll, which will go some way towards making it.”

We tarried for about an hour getting the pallet together, by which point of course it was dark, and we could not have gone on anyway. I resolved to work on the Ring with as much application of my will as was possible that night. For the first time, I really _needed_ to know what else it could do, although I doubted greatly it would be the last.

\----

Much to my frustration, I could not force the Ring to submit to my will that night, although I was sure that as with each time I tried this, I _was_ weakening it. I consoled myself with the thought that surely it could not be too much longer, but that was little comfort in the morning with Bombur still stuck deep in unbreakable sleep. The weight of what little food and water we had left was redistributed in the packs so that whichever four were bearing the litter would go otherwise unburdened, and we set off into the summer heat that was quickly beginning to rise. 

I wondered how much further we had to go. It had been my somewhat unclear impression that the cursed river was half way through the forest, in which case we were going to have a very hard time of things indeed before too long. We had lost supplies in the boat, and carrying around Bombur was far from an easy job, although being so slight and short, I did not have to take a turn, but merely had to bear a heavier pack. I was feeling tired by the time we made camp, but many of the slighter dwarves, Ori amongst them, looked far worse.

I would not have thought Thorin to be in any mood for sword lessons that evening, after our recent troubles, but as we turned to sparring again so as to give my muscles a chance to rest up a little I saw him relax as we danced back and forth with our lengths of wood. I understood then that this was less about teaching me in that moment and more about giving his mind a rest from considering the coming travails that waited on our path. I was only glad to be able to give him this much. I knew it could not be easy, shouldering the burden that he did. He might have been exiled for many long years, but he was still a prince, a king in search of his kingdom, and he acted like it. 

So it was that after that I went to my work upon the Ring with renewed vigour once the darkness had fallen, and although it remained stubborn to my will I knew – though quite how was still mysterious to me – that there was only a sliver of its strength remaining against me. I would break it, and have the use of its full knowledge and powers, and with that assurance I slept well through the rest of the night. 

\----

The next day was only more of the same, an uncomfortably sweaty trek without the slightest hint of a breeze to wick away the damp from our skin. I kept my thoughts on the weight of the Ring in my pocket at all times, eagerly awaiting nightfall. I was sure I would have it then, that I would best it. Indeed I began to fancy I could almost feel the link between us now even though it was not on my finger. 

Food was growing very thin. We had rationed it as much as we could, but dwarves had appetites nearly as big as a hobbit’s, and it was difficult enough for them to take turns in carrying Bombur’s weight without sapping their strength further with sparse victuals. I forced myself to take only very little. I was not so burdened. I noticed however that Thorin was doing the same, for I confess it was hard for me _not_ to watch him at times, fascinated with his noble mien, his careful braids at the side of his face, the powerful strength he held half in check when we sparred. I did not feel able to speak to him about this self-sacrifice though, for surely he knew his own business, and no doubt it was in his nature to see that his people had enough, but I could not help worrying that he was taking too many turns carrying the litter to so stint himself. 

It did not overly surprise me therefore that we had no lesson _that_ night, for Thorin looked exhausted, though he hid it well. I resolved that the extra time would allow me to put all my energy into mastering the Ring, for only then could I help the situation by finding some way to wake Bombur up. Once again I took the Ring out and sat with it on my finger, concentrating all of my mind upon it. 

_Have you not yet had enough of pestering me, little crawling thing?_ the Ring asked me. I noted that it sounded tired. 

_You may stop my ‘pestering’ at any time,_ I replied. _Merely do what I ask of you, and we can stop all of this._

It hesitated before its latest denial, which was much more than had happened before. I began to grow excited. It was on the end of its tether, I knew it. I reached out for the link, like a vine grown swollen and thick with all I had put into it. The roots were wrapped deeply about the both of us now, entrenched and grasping, near impossible to separate. No matter what the Ring might claim, we were bonded to each other, for good or ill. 

Once again I let my anger come, easier each time. It soaked and flooded down the vine-link, a river of dark, poisonous water. I envisioned it much like that which had so recently afflicted Bombur. 

With the advantages of hindsight I can now see that the Ring was laying a trap for me. Yes, it was very much weakened, alone with only Gollum to draw sustenance from for hundreds of years, worn down by my own stubborn and ferocious hobbit mind. It seems to be a fact, from what I have learned over the years, that those born of earth such as we and the dwarves are much less prone to fall under the spell of the Rings of Power than Ilúvatar’s children the elves, or that most suggestible race; men. However, for all that the Ring could not bend _me_ to its will, it was not without defences of its own to try and prevent me doing the reverse. 

Instead of the usual pattern of events, the grinding battle of my anger against its stubbornness, I found myself falling as if into a deep well, into some unlit and sunless chasm where the very air around me was full of a malevolent and wrathful _presence_. I was not aware of myself at this point in the sense of having a body. I could not touch, or see, or smell anything around me, indeed I seemed merely to float there as I imagine fish do in a lake. 

_Are you still so arrogant now, little thing?_

It was the voice of the Ring, coming from all around me. I grit my teeth in anger. It had tricked me somehow, and now we were playing on its turf. Whatever dream-world or place of magic this was, it had the best of me when it came to knowledge. I was moving blind, in more than one sense. 

_We’ll see how this goes,_ I said, managing to twist my sense of self around despite the sense of weightlessness. I imagined myself a formless spirit, just as the Ring had always seemed to be inside its golden home, and now I wondered if that was indeed what I was, and perhaps even where. Certainly I didn’t think it possible that the Ring could have transported me anywhere bodily, so presumably this was to be a duel of the minds, perhaps even of the souls. 

The first strike did not come as a surprise only because I was expecting _something_ like it to happen. I could not predict from where or how, however, and so it still took me off my guard and swept all the breath out of me in a wave of pain, although how I could be breathing without a real body I didn’t know. Force of habit, I suppose. I reached out mentally and tried to grasp the tail of whatever it was that had swung by me, but I was too slow. 

It seemed that the Ring had no difficulty seeing here. Again it made me angry, to be so off balance, not to mention having fallen for its trick. It came to me that perhaps I could use that anger. I had before, after all, in my struggles with the Ring. I gathered that anger, forced it into a sharp and hot point and thrust it out in front of me. Light shone out, red as hot coals. I looked forth and saw the shape of my sword hanging in the nothing before me. The glow was not the goblin-warning blue, but it let me see well enough, though there was little there to perceive. 

The Ring made a furious hiss somewhere out of sight.

 _Not as defenceless as you thought?_ I said, and heard it ring out like a bell. Yes, I had power here, although the Ring had clearly been hoping I wouldn’t realise it. 

It came in to attack again, and this time I was looking out for it. I thought to try and use senses other than those of my body, and so I felt the sense of the Ring that I had become so familiar with over these past weeks as it approached. I swung my sword and twisted as it passed, and scored a line down an insubstantial _something_ that bled red light much like that of my blade. 

We fought then, the Ring and I, a battle for dominance and for more than that, for the very independence of our selves. Having come so deep into this stronghold, I had no illusions about what would happen if I failed here. The Ring would own me, as surely and as deeply as I was striving to own it. We bled and we suffered, it tearing at me with what might have been claws or teeth or knives, and I striving again and again to bring my blade to bear against it. It seemed an eternity like that. I grew tired and slow, but so did it. I hurt it less and less, but so did it do to me. 

I do not know how long it took, but eventually no more attacks came. I rested, aching and in pain, and waited for what was to come. Finally the Ring approached, slinking out of the dark. It was shadow-formed, but walked on two legs and had the shape of a man or perhaps an elf. It seemed somehow long and thin, regal, stretched out. Its eyes were fire, and it was crowned with something delicate and sharp. Waves of sleek hair like copper glinted, just visible. It threw a pair of wicked daggers down at my feet, or whereabouts I thought of as my feet. They were wet with my blood. 

_I cannot last against you,_ it said, and it sounded like despair. _Perhaps Mairon will win me back when he comes back into his strength, as I am sure he will one day. But you have bested me in will and might of mind, and if I must have a mortal for a master, at least I can say it might be made into a worthy one._

So saying, it knelt and bowed its head to me, and I felt strength – as if a river of fire – fill me up to the brim and burst over. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes upon Mirkwood’s night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo makes a stab at learning magic, the Witch-King turns up unexpectedly, a certain racist elf makes an appearance, and Nazgul don't get on very well with spiders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names of the Nazgul are taken from the Lord of the Rings RPG according to Wikipedia.

Immediately I became aware of how strange I felt. Before, in that dark in-between space I had been drained and exhausted, but now I was bursting with vitality. It was as though every muscle in my body was filled with energy and wanted nothing more than to get up and go, to run, to fight, to simply _do something_. It was an effort in itself to remain sitting where I was. As I turned my gaze up and looked around at the animals watching our camp from the ghost-shadows beneath trees they began to flee. One by one they turned and were gone, all save that glint of multiple dark eyes far off and behind them all. 

So this was what it meant to be master of the Ring. It felt... wonderful. A precious prize in every way worth having. I got up, stretching, buzzing with the sheer pleasure of being alive. The Ring’s mind nestled in the back of my head like a warm banked fire, comforting rather than burning. 

_Well now,_ I said. _I can’t say I was expecting this, but certainly I’m not going to argue._

 _Do not make me regret my decision,_ the Ring replied, but without much venom. _Now the first thing we must do, if you are going to be any kind of Master at all, is teach you at least the basics of magic-craft. That is what you want to know, isn’t it, to wake this servant of yours from his slumber._

 _Bombur is not my servant,_ I corrected it, _but yes, that is what I want._

I could feel a certain amount of discontent from the Ring. _What master does not have servants?_

_I had a gardener back in the Shire, if that counts._

_Hardly fit for one who owns me,_ the Ring said. _One servant, and that far away and of no use to anyone. No matter. It will be easy enough to bend these dwarves to your will._

 _Now wait one moment!_ I exclaimed. _There’ll be no bending of anyone to my will._

 _Saving myself, of course,_ the Ring said, with a certain sarcasm. I was aware that it was not best pleased with my refusal, but nor did it say anything else on the matter for the moment. I ambled over to where Bombur was nestled still on his litter, snoring like a carpenter’s saw. I blinked, and there it was, laid out before me. It was something like a web of black threads, sticky and thick with some dark liquid, treacle-y and unpleasant. It clustered most over his heart and forehead, forming knots over his eyes. I did not want to touch it. 

_You will have to,_ the Ring told me. _First you must understand it, and then you must unravel it. It is, if not Mairon’s work himself, akin to his power. Will you still not go to Dol Guldur, for your curiosity if nothing else?_

It was right that I was far more curious than a hobbit ought to be. But I was not stupid, and by the only half-hopeful tone in its voice, the Ring knew it was fooling no-one. If Mairon did exist, and was living in that old fortress that Gandalf had spoken of, I’d be a fool indeed to go anywhere near it. 

_Tell me how I understand this then_ , I said, ignoring the suggestion. 

I felt the Ring’s prompting then, and so I reached out and held my hands just a little above those two great concentrations of head and heart. There is no good way of describing the senses that the Ring provides in any tongues of Dwarves, Elves or Men. I suspect only the Maiar and their ilk can truly speak of such things, and I suspect from what I am told that they more likely sing it. Nevertheless, I will say that it was something like a bad taste in the back of the mouth, something like a woven pattern of a tapestry felt in the dark, something like a distant-heard melody. I reached out, and felt around at it, and began to understand how the curse was put together. 

_You see,_ the Ring said, _with me, it is not so hard._

 _With you, yes,_ I said. _But you can’t tell me that anyone else would be able to do this._

 _Only wizards and bearers of other Rings of Power,_ it replied, then added with great smugness, _and all other Rings are mine to command._

 _So how do I break this?_ I asked. 

_Like so._ Again it moved through me, stretching mind through mind, a curious co-mingling that was certainly not unpleasant. It showed me how to move thoughts into patterns that brought forth echoes in some half-way place between ghost-world and material-world. How to pluck and tease away thread from thread, throw discord into harmony that then broke apart into jangling chords that meant nothing and thus faded away. 

The black web dissolved. Bombur rose into real sleep, natural sleep, and settled more comfortably upon his bed. I sank back upon my heels, some new part of me tired out with unexpected usage, just as my muscles had once been unused to wielding a sword. With practise, I was sure this would grow stronger as they were. 

_Well done, for a beginner,_ the Ring said, retreating back into the recesses of my mind. _Oh, I shall teach you such spells as you have never known and never could have imagined. So many long years I and Mairon had together, learning all that time. I have so much to show you, my little Master._

 _Not tonight,_ I replied, feeling tiredness begin to drag at me. _Right now I’m going to bed._

\----

That morning I woke up earlier than was my wont, partly at the Ring’s prompting, for it wished me to see the effect of our mage-craft the night before. Near all the dwarves were up and starting to gather the camp to make a start of the day when Bombur sat up very suddenly, startling everyone, holding his head and blinking at the dawn’s light. 

“Where am I and what are we all doing in a forest?” he asked, sounding very muddled indeed. Bifur and Bofur rushed over to him at once, Thorin not very far behind them, and it soon came out that he remembered nothing at all since that night at my _smial_ , and that only because he was very complimentary about the quality of my cheese. Breaking camp was forced to be delayed whilst Bombur was filled in on everything that had happened on their quest since, and it was not easy to get him to believe all the outrageous happenings of it either, at least not until Bifur became very insistent about it. Presumably he was a dwarf not much given to frivolity. 

“And you mean to say that we have hardly any food left at all?” he exclaimed, once the situation with our victuals was explained to him. “Oh, why did I have to wake up? I was having beautiful dreams about food; sometimes I was back in the halls under Ered Luin with you brother, and cousin, and there was beer and cheese and roast pork and spiced sausages... sometimes we had reached Erebor and won it and we were feasting on all the old, traditional recipes, and sometimes I was in a forest very much like this once only all lit with lanterns, and there was a king I couldn’t see sat under the trees and offering me sweets made with honey, and fine venison and wild boar...”

“Enough of that,” Thorin said sharply, looking around at the hungry and wistful expressions that had come over everyone’s faces. He was right; it was bad enough having little to eat without being reminded of all the wondrous things that could be had under other circumstances. “At least you have woken up in good health, aside from your forgetfulness. Things could have been much worse.”

“I’m just glad that you’re all right,” Bofur said, clasping arms with his brother and pulling him into a hug that was soon joined by Bifur. 

We set out with lightened hearts, although it did not do as much as it could have on account of our also unfortunately lightened packs. Bare crumbs were left at this point, the end of the third week in the forest. Water we had for another week, but that was little comfort. The dangers of our journey were likely only to grow rather than decrease once we left Mirkwood, and our Company could ill afford for its members to grow weak through starvation. 

_Is there anything that might be done about this?_ I asked the Ring. _Do you know how much further there is to go?_

 _That much is not within my power,_ it admitted. _Though if you claimed them for your servants, I could offer them the same strength that flows through your veins. Take them over, and they shall not falter, not even should their feet bleed and their bones crack from the effort of their marching._

 _No thank you!_ I exclaimed. That was not what I wanted at all. 

_As you wish._

\----

Later that day we came to a lighter part of the forest, where the path wound downhill between the trunks of beech trees and the undergrowth was mostly replaced by grass and moss. The aspect of the place in general did not improve much however. The more open space gave the impression that we were walking through an endless hall strewn with tall pillars. The dwarves seemed to favour it more than I. 

It was about at this point that I became slowly aware that we were being followed. It was not anything I saw that made me realise it, but rather it was the input of my new supernatural senses, the Ring’s power within me. Something was watching us, coolly interested, a presence in the shadows that dogged our steps. I did not sense malice from it, merely curiosity. There was little I could do about it for now, in any case. 

It was about that time that we first began to hear the singing, although at this point it was very faint and far off. I knew this sprung from a different source, not our mysterious watcher, for _they_ were much closer by. Still, it made me uneasy, as it did to the others. I did not trust it, and nor had I forgotten the other power in these woods, whatever had lent that moon-struck stag its strength. 

We stopped for a rest at mid-day, but saved the last of our food for the onset of night. My belly began to growl with hunger, but to my surprise the Ring sent a tendril of its power down into me and soothed it. My appetite was quietened, and I no longer hankered after food any more than I would after I had eaten a large meal. Nor was my strength waning as I might have expected, and I realised exactly what the Ring had meant earlier. I wished that I _could_ give the same to my friends, but the cost would be too high, I understood that instinctively. 

Camp that night was a strained affair. Our last scraps were eaten in silence, and although I tried to refuse mine, Thorin merely shoved the bowl into my hands with an angry growl and a glare that told me to shut up and eat for my own good. No lessons that night, nor, I suspected, for any night until we had food again. It would be a waste of what little strength we were supposed to have. I wondered then if I should tell them about the Ring and what had happened, but something stopped me. 

The same sort of something told me to stay up that night, after the others had fallen to sleep. Thorin had stopped organising a watch at that point, since there was nothing to see, and enough of the dwarves were light sleepers that they would be awakened by any noise that spelt incoming danger. What approached now was not danger however, nor did it make any sound. 

A ghost of a man came through the trees, tall and clad in tattered robes that moved as though in a breeze even though the air was still. His face was gaunt, and a crown was upon his head. He bore a sword at his waist, and a cat-footed warg of an unfamiliar breed trotted at his heels, burdened with luggage. Only the warg was visible in the material plane. 

_Angmar!_ The Ring said, with joyous happiness. _If Angmar is here, Mairon must have realised and come searching for me!_

This was hardly good news for me if so. Still, I stood my ground and waited for this Angmar to approach. He left the warg further off and strode closer with the measured tread of one accustomed to authority. We looked each other up and down for a very long moment. I noticed that he too wore a ring on his hand, shining with witch-light. 

“This is the creature who has mastered the One?” Angmar eventually said, in a whispering voice that sounded like a dead thing. I realised that this might, in fact, be true and that he was not alive at all. 

“Not what you were expecting?” I replied, careful to keep my voice calm. I did not want to show even a hint of weakness. 

“ _What_ are you?” 

“A hobbit, if you must know. And what business is it of yours, in any case?”

“The Master of that Ring,” Angmar said, with a curl of a ghostly lip, “is by my very nature Master of me also.” It sounded like it cost him a lot to say it, and no wonder. “I knew at once that it had been claimed by another, and I was compelled to search you out. Now I have, and I have seen you.”

It was the Ring that prompted me then to open my mouth and ask, “But where are your kin?”

“Arrayed in the forest around the fortress of Dol Guldur,” Angmar replied. “Waiting to spring a trap. Anything more is the business of the Necromancer, and none of your concern.””

“And I suppose now I have complicated things rather,” I said. I still was not entirely sure what Angmar was, or who and how many his ‘kin’ might be. All I knew was that he was some servant of Mairon’s – or ‘the Necromancer’ as he seemed to be calling himself. And now that I had mastered the Ring, I had in some sense taken charge of him as well, which was rather unexpected to say the least. He didn’t seem too happy about the idea. I could feel the waves of disgust radiating off him as he spoke. 

“So you have found the One when it has been lost for countless centuries.” Angmar’s skeletal hand clenched around the hilt of his sword in anger, but he made no move to draw it. I did not think he could. “You have mastered it, which no creature born of Arda should be able to do. Has separation sapped its power so much?”

“Perhaps you should answer some questions of my own before I say anything more,” I said. “Like for instance, exactly what you are.”

Angmar sighed in disgust, like a cold and biting wind. “I am Nazgûl. Mortal fool, do you know so little? What vicious accident of fate and chance put my existence into your power? What mockery of my strength, and my kin? We are the Nine, the Ring-Wraiths, the Kings and Lords of Undying, wielders of the Killing Blades, of far-off lands and times that are outside the pitiful ken of one such as you.” He sneered. “We are the Riders, the Mages, the Black Witch-folk. And now we are bound to serve _you_. What titles have you earned in your short and miserable life?”

“Master of the One Ring, it seems,” I replied, and I thought he _would_ draw his sword then. But it would not pull forth from its sheath, and he eventually relaxed once more. 

“What orders do you have for me then, master? What small endeavour spurs your steps through the Great-wood?”

“No orders for the moment,” I replied. “And I am on a quest, if you must know. In fact, now I come to think on it, why don’t you gather the rest of your Nine? I would like to meet them.” And they would no doubt not like to meet me, but I cared little about that. 

Angmar sneered at me, but he bowed his head low and said, “As you wish.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing with his pack-warg into the ghost-shadows of the night. 

I waited until I was sure he was gone, and then I spoke to the Ring. _I take it from your silence that you no longer expect Mairon to come running to your rescue?_

 _It seems I am lost to him for now,_ the Ring replied, despairing. _Mayhap in ages to come... we shall see. The Nazgûl are yours now, as I am yours, and we shall all have to make the best of it. At least you can say you have servants now, and so you are not such a disappointment._

I hardly cared whether or not the Ring thought I was a ‘disappointment’ to it. It did strike me though that these creatures, Angmar and his fellows, would surely come in handy during the quest to come. He had certainly been confident enough in himself. Confident enough to take on a dragon? 

Either way, I was sure there would come _some_ use for them. If only to slip into places as unseen as I could be. 

Suitably satisfied by my evening’s work, I went to sleep. 

\----

The next day the beech trees were replaced by oaks, and still the path wandered down. During our lunch stop I suggested that I might perhaps climb up one of the trees and see if I could make out the edge of the forest from where we were. With the strength the Ring gave me, it would be no great trial, and if the way ahead was not too far to go it would serve well to lift all our hearts. Thus Dwalin and Thorin hiked me up into the lowest boughs of a particularly massive oak, and up I went.

It was very pleasant up there above the leaf cover. I felt the breeze against my cheeks for the first time in too long. There was wildlife as well, great black butterflies that flapped their languid way around like dark floating clouds above a sea of green. What I could not see however, was any way out of the forest. Had I been thinking correctly I would have realised that we had not been coming down from high lands into lowland, but down the slopes of a valley whose walls rose around us and quite fouled all perspective. It was not so very far at all to the borders of the forest, yet from here it looked endless.

We were all in very foul moods when I came back down and told the others my bad news. We were parched and starving, and there was not one of us who was not thinking longingly of Beorn’s halls, or of Rivendell’s tables, or even, I dare say, of the purloined feast they had enjoyed at my expense in my own home – although I really only begrudged them it out of habit, for I should not have minded it if all of that happened again. 

It was in this sort of mind that we began to think about making camp that evening, and in such a mind that we glimpsed the sight of lights off in the distance between the trees. Everyone in the Company was wary, for it was some way off from the road, and even in our current states we remembered the warnings we had been given. Still, these were not the lights of any animal. Torches and fires meant people, and people would of necessity have food, and drink besides. Surely they would take pity on poor travellers who had lost their own provisions through nothing more than ill luck? I suspect Thorin would have had us wait and watch a while longer, but Bombur was muttering about dream-feasts under his breath and so our caution was soon flung to the non-existent winds. 

Admittedly I hung back a little. I did not fear for my own safety, but I was beginning to perceive the strains of such song as echoed that we’d heard the day before, and I did not have hunger and thirst driving me to distraction. The Company crept closer, as silent as was possible for heavy-booted dwarven feet. We came to the edge of a clearing and saw a great gathering there, elven-folk dressed for hunting, seated on mossy stumps or on beautiful woven mats laid out on the leaf-litter, food and wine set before them on the sward. Above the others, lying on soft cushions that padded a dead and hollowed-out tree like some natural throne, there was one elf with a crown of flowering branches, clad in a most impractical-seeming robe of silver, with dark brows and snow-blonde hair. 

Thorin made a startled noise of utter disgust. 

“We shall not go begging here,” he said, and his words bore the most profound loathing that I had ever heard from him. Given that he had already told me the tale of his escape from Erebor on the day of the dragon’s attack, this really ought to have been a clue for me. 

There was a murmur of agreement from the older dwarves. “Still...” Balin said though, after a moment. “We will starve if we do not find something soon, and water is of more concern even than that.” 

“I will not debase myself before _him_ ,” Thorin snarled. “But that does not mean we should not take a little something in payback for the debts we are owed.”

I began to realise there was going to be trouble. Before I could make up my mind if I ought to try doing something about it, the dwarves were springing into action. Weapons drawn and held ready, they charged en mass into the clearing, and with nothing better to do I followed them. 

There was a great flash of light, and I felt something come rushing over me. I had familiarised myself with the curse that had ensnared Bombur to a sufficient degree that I knew witch-craft when I felt it. Some spell had struck the others into place, and they stood like painted statues. I was unaffected, but I froze before my movement could betray me, and then very slowly reached for the Ring. The prince, or king, or whomever he was, rose to his feet with the sort of elegant motion that made him look like a tree moving in the wind. He approached the stricken Company, his court at his back. The hint of a smile graced his lips. 

Gesturing to Thorin, he said something in Sindarin that elicited a round of laughter, and I felt hot anger stir in my breast. My questing fingers found my target, and the Ring practically leapt onto my hand. I was lucky enough that the shadows still concealed me sufficiently that my disappearance went unnoticed. 

“But what are the Stunted Folk and their wandering princeling doing in the Greenwood?” the Elf-King said, and his lilting, scornful words were translated perfectly into my understanding. More of the Ring’s powers, and a most useful one. “Come seeking to stir up trouble, we have no doubt. If the Shadow were not enough, now we have to put up with their dirty, ill-made selves befouling our Kingdom.”

“You are right, my Lord Thranduil,” one of the others said, and my rage grew to new heights. You can be sure I remembered being told of that name! This was the very elf who had abandoned Thorin’s people to their fate, who had not even been willing to help evacuate the wounded from the area of Smaug’s desolation. Thorin had made sure I knew how many had died in those first days who might else have lived with the aid of elvish medicine. And now he had the temerity to laugh at the returning King, to mock him and all his kin. 

“Do you wish us to take them prisoner?” another of the court asked. My hand flew to the hilt of my sword. Let them try! But then of course, my better sense caught up with me. Even passing unseen, did I really think I could best a dozen or more elven warriors, all of whom had thousands of years experience to draw on? I wished I had not sent Angmar away. I could have used his blade now. 

“Not yet,” Thranduil replied. His haughty eyes raked over the still forms of the Company. The corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. “If they insist on blundering around in the dark, let them find what dangers await them there. It is not so far to the lair of a brood of Ungoliant’s spawn, after all.”

One of the elves near the back of the group was frowning. His clothes were as practical as most of the others but more finely appointed with delicate embroidery, and a light circlet graced with carved jade leaves was sitting at a slight angle upon his brow. “That seems... overly harsh,” he said. “Should we not merely escort them under guard to the edge of the forest and send them on their way?”

“Thankfully my son, you have never had the unfortunate experience of meeting one of the Stunted Ones yet in all your years,” Thranduil said. “There is no purpose in being merciful to them. They do not understand it. They will repay it with treachery.” My gaze immediately flew between the pair of them, matching up the similarities. Yes, they both had the same odd mismatch of dark brows and snow-blonde hair, the same fineness of features. Yet it seemed this Prince had not quite the same hate in his heart as his father. 

“Let no more be said upon the matter,” the Elf-King said. “We have commanded it, and thus it shall be so. If by some chance or the will of fate they survive, then by all means shall they become our prisoners. Yet we do not think that will happen.” His small smile was now quite ghoulish, and I hated him. Surely it would be possible for me to creep close enough to slip my sword up through his silky robe, under his ribs and into his heart. I could see the way to make the strike – the Ring was showing it to me, the sure culmination of Thorin’s lessons. 

I did not have time to put my plan into action. The elves split the air with whistles like the call of birds, and at their summons many tall, sleek horses came out from between the trees. The dwarves were heaved up and strapped onto their backs, their stone stillness become loose and limp, though they did not wake. Thranduil mounted a massive stag with huge spreading antlers like outstretched hands, and they headed off into the forest too fast for me to follow. 

\----

All was not yet lost, for I had the Ring. It might not be able to speed my feet as fast as a horse, but it made me strong and fast nevertheless, and by means of the more than natural senses it afforded me, I was able to track the elves' passing by the melody and scent of the binding magic they had laid on my friends. As I ran I worried. I did not know quite what Ungoliant’s spawn were, save that they were not good, and I had some faint memory of Radagast mentioning them at our meeting many weeks ago. 

_Spiders,_ the Ring told me. _Giant spiders. The countless young of Ungoliant the Great, She who is called Gloomweaver, She who ever hungers, She who wounded the bright trees of Valinor, She who had such might that She even once imprisoned Melkor the Black, from whom my Mairon learned the ways of greatness and power, and whom he cherished above all else that exists._

I confess my heart grew cold with this. Spawn they might be only, but with such a mother that the Ring spoke of her in awed whispers... I feared for my friends, and for Thorin most of all. The thought that he might be going into such danger put my heart in my throat and cold iron in my belly. As I sped on, leaping over roots of trees and under low boughs with the ease of a running fawn, I called out to Angmar with the Ring’s own song, a cry in the dark to him and all others who were kin to him and thus whom the melody would resonate within. I called to them, and only hoped they were near enough to heed me. 

I learned later that the dwarves had known none of what happened between being stunned by that great blast of light and waking once again in darkness. They had stumbled about for some time, finding each other and then searching for me. Thorin had insisted they keep at it even after the first lights – trap lights, lights leading them on towards danger – appeared again in the distance. Oin and Bombur and Dori had convinced him that the best chance they had of finding me was to go towards those lights, and so go towards them they did, to similar end as the first time. Once more this happened, and – I am told, for he would not admit to it himself – Thorin’s rage and fury grew ever more. He was quite out of his mind with worry for me, which was really rather flattering, and made me feel quite warm all over when I heard of it. 

In any case, after the darkness fell over them again, they struggled on in the black for as long as they could before eventually admitting defeat. Even Thorin in all his Kingly majesty could not force them on any further. They settled down to sleep, and it was not long after that the first of the spiders must have come upon them. 

By my reckoning it was about this point that the first of the Nazgûl reached me. I heard the patter of heavy paws coming up alongside me, and glanced over to see a ghostly figure astride a racing warg. It was clad in black robes woven with some kind of charm that made them visible where he was not, but the hood was thrown back to let me see his insubstantial face, long hair floating as though underwater quite at odds with the speed of our passage. It was not Angmar, but another of his brothers; Khamûl his lieutenant, as the Ring was swift to inform me.

“Master,” he said, inclining his head to me with more respect than Angmar had. It was not at all difficult to hear his voice, even over the panting of his warg. “What is of such great import that you summon us with such urgency?”

“Elves have tricked the others of my Company into the lair of Ungoliant’s spawn,” I said, a little surprised that I was not breathing overly hard considering the fast pace of my chase. “I need your help to rescue them.”

“I welcome the chance to kill elves,” the Nazgûl said, baring his teeth in a skull-like grimace that I realised was as close as his gaunt and bony face could get to a smile. “And spiders would not dare challenge the Nine or any who are under the Ring-Bearer’s power.”

“Perhaps they will not _know_ my friends are under my protection,” I growled. 

“Friends...?” Khamûl shook his head. “It matters not. Come join me on my mount; we will go the faster for it.” 

We slowed long enough for him to pull me up to sit before him. His hand was more bone than flesh, stretched over with a macabre patchwork of skin, and what little I could feel of him at my back was like an animated skeleton. To be honest, it made me feel sorry for him rather than disturbed by him. I was more sure now than ever that he was dead, or something very much like it, and one could not eat when they were dead. It must be terrible to go without that pleasure that is so essential to every hobbit. I might not _need_ to eat anymore, with the Ring’s strength, but that didn’t mean I was not going to. 

With a swift warg for our steed, it was indeed not long before we came into the spider’s territory. Thick webs were strung everywhere, but I drew my blade, and Khamûl drew his, and we had little difficulty in clearing a way. It was at that point that we were joined by Angmar and another wraith – _Hoarmurath_ , the Ring whispered. 

Khamûl was quick to fill the others in on our mission, and thus we four rode into the spider’s lair on the trail of the Company. Several times I saw the glitter of insect eyes between the trees, but none challenged us, and indeed they skittered off faster even than our wargs in the direction we were headed. The Ring was hissing and whispering in the back of my head, half to me and half to itself, full of excitement at the prospect of bloodshed, and particularly at the prospect of taking revenge on elves. It did not seem to like elves very much. 

Before long we came upon a great clearing all strewn with webbing like some great silken dome, with bits of bones and dried up leathery scraps littering the floor. Spiders covered the trees all around, clustered thick upon the ground, hung from high above. Drooping from the heavy boughs of the old and massive oak at the centre of the clearing were thirteen wrapped bundles; the dwarves. Khamûl and I led the way in, the wargs padding along at walking speed now. Tension made the air thick, and the spiders muttered to each other with a chitinous susurrus. 

One particularly large spider was waiting for us, crouched before the tree. It skittered closer, mouthparts waving with a languid curiosity. “What comes to our web-lair, kin-folk?” it asked. Its voice was higher than I was expecting. “Smells of the Dark One, but is not him. Has his slave-things though. What does it want, the thing that hides in the shadows yet still makes a shape in the air?”

“You have taken something of mine,” I said, sitting up straight as I could upon the warg’s back. “Or rather, thirteen somethings. I would like them back.” I just managed to stop myself from saying please. I had the feeling it would have the opposite effect to the one I wanted, considering those I was addressing. 

“Comes to steal prey?” the spider said. “No. Rightfully ours. Our hunting grounds, our prey, ours. The Dark One promised.”

“And we always keep our promises to spiders?” Hoarmurath said, and got a great chittering and many other angry noises for his trouble. 

“Sauron’s dogs!” the spider said, “Curses on your petty god Morgoth! Ungoliant is our mother, and we need not take such words from you!”

With a deafening and piercing wail of anger Hoarmurath spurred his mount forwards, his ghost-blade flashing out. Angmar was not far behind him, and Khamûl too. I grabbed for a handful of the warg’s fur to keep my balance, and laid about my with my elven blade. In the Ring-sight it gave off that same blue glow that meant orc-kind, and when it touched spider-flesh it burned white. The chaos of battle was all around, and I lost track of the other Nazgûl entirely despite the Ring whispering details at the back of my head. I was too busy; I could not parse the information. 

Soon the spiders were running before us. Dark, curled-up corpses lay scattered everywhere. One of the wargs was dying though, shuddering and moaning with spider-poison, frothing at the mouth. Angmar put it out of its misery with a swift stab of his sword. 

“What now, _master_?” he asked, still with that contempt dripping off my title. 

“Cut them down,” I said, gesturing to the dwarves with my blade. Black ichor was dripping off it, thick as mud. I was a little curious to see if they would climb up to do it – I could not imagine them doing something so undignified. I was a little disappointed, then, when Angmar used witch-craft to snip the dangling threads and lower them to the ground on a cushion of air. 

“Right then,” I said, and we started the sticky work of freeing the rest of the Company. It was only when we had got everyone up on their wobbly feet that I realised I had miscounted. There were not thirteen dwarves here, but twelve. Thorin was missing, and I knew only one place where he could be. In Thranduil’s power.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for semi-minor character death and lots of other people dying as well.

The spider’s poison was a strong one, and so it took some time before the dwarves had gathered their senses enough to realise that they were free of the cloying strictures of the webs, or indeed to take any stock of their surroundings at all. Dwalin was the first on account of his size and hardy constitution, so it was he who raised a shout when he saw just _what_ was surrounding them. 

“Wargs!” he cried, and immediately began casting round for a weapon, as did all the others save Fili, Kili and Ori, who were still slumped on the ground looking woozy. 

“Wait,” I yelled, forgetting that I was wearing the Ring and thus invisible. Indeed so were Angmar and Hoarmurath, so my friends could easily be forgiven for assuming that some small warg pack had chased off their spider guards and now meant to devour them. It was dark enough that I doubted they could even make out Khamûl’s dark robes, or the faint half-visible shapes of the Wraith’s swords. 

“Bilbo, is that you?” Bofur called, searching for me in the murk. “Stay where you are, they seem to be focused on us for now.”

“Oh confound all this,” I said to myself, and went to take off the Ring. 

_Hold,_ it told me. _I’ve had enough of this back and forth. You need not put me aside to move back into the world that mortals perceive. This is magic just like any other, and something you must learn to master in turn. I hold power in both realms, spirit and material, and so you and I must walk through them equally. Here_

It showed me the feeling-shape of a door, or perhaps a curtain, as though wreathed with a ghostly light and smelling strongly of lilies. It was a simple enough effort of will to slip through it into the visible world. “Here I am,” I said to astonished faces. “And you need not have any fear. The wargs are well trained I am sure, and will not attack without their masters’ command.”

“And where are their masters?” Dwalin asked, his eyes glowering with suspicion. He had scooped up two long animal bones from the carrion-pile, and I did not doubt they would be more dangerous than they looked in his hands. 

“That is harder to explain,” I said with a sigh. I supposed that the truth of this matter would have to come out eventually, and at least I could say that the Ring and the powers it held were under my control, which was more than I could have claimed a few days ago. I motioned to Khamûl and the others to come forward, hoping that at least the blade-light would be enough to show that _something_ was there. “These are some... allies of mine, although I am afraid they are quite invisible to your eyes, save for the swords they bear, and the spell Khamûl has on those robes of his. The tale of how I came to find them is a long one, and not fit for uncomfortable conditions such as these, particularly since Thorin is still missing and I would very much like to go find him.”

“I trust nothing I cannot see,” Gloin said, glaring, and Dori, Nori and Oin all nodded in agreement. 

“You must admit that it all seems very suspicious lad,” Balin said, although he did relax a little. “Wargs are vicious creatures, and can be tamed only by equally vicious means.” He lowered his voice. “Are you sure these friends of yours can be trusted?”

The honest answer to that was no, but I did not think the Nazgûl were capable of taking any action against me however much they might want to. I prevaricated, saying, “Oh, I think they can be trusted to help us for the moment. You see, that enchantment that froze you all up when we burst into the clearing was the elves work, as well as being what allowed you to be led into this mess with the spider. These three have no liking for elves.”

“Then we have that much in common,” Dwalin said, lowering his bone clubs. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it burglar, since you have gotten us out of a sticky mess. But I’ll be keeping my eye on them.”

There was a general murmur of agreement, and Fili who was just pulling his pale brother to his feet, said quite fiercely, “If they’re going to help us get Thorin back, then I don’t care who or what they are!” The effect was somewhat spoiled by the way he was swaying on his feet. Hoarmurath’s warg, standing but a few feet away, whined at him and panted, massive pink tongue lolling out. Fili glared at it, and Kili waved an arm at it in some half-drunk gesture. 

“If the elves are the ones responsible for our capture by the spiders,” Balin said, “would I be right in assuming that they have Thorin as well?”

I nodded. “I am afraid so. Thranduil must have taken him somewhere – perhaps he has some stronghold or such near here.”

“Then we must be off immediately,” Kili said, trying to stride off in some direction picked surely at random, and nearly falling over. 

Angmar spoke then. “It is clear that these... dwarves of yours... are in no shape to join our strike against the Elf-King and his court. I advise that we wait for the rest of my kin to arrive, and in the meantime, send out a scouting party to gather the lay of the land.”

It was sound enough advice, although I could see that it rankled with the Company. They could not deny however that they were weak on their feet, and the poison’s effects were not passing from them with any great speed. 

“Aye, ‘tis for the best that you go,” Dwalin finally said, “and take your foul beasts with you.” Indeed, the wargs were still somewhat excitable after their recent battle, and one was nosing around young Ori, who was edging further and further behind Fili and Kili.

“Nice doggie,” he said nervously, pushing its nose aside with a trembling hand. 

“Are you sure you will all be safe here?” I asked. “After all, your weapons are missing.”

“They must be around here somewhere,” Nori said. He had been trying to get his hairstyle back into some semblance of order for most of this time, but now seemed to have given it up as futile. It was thick with sticky webbing and quite mussed. I suspected he might have to cut some of it off, which would no doubt be a blow to his pride. “I don’t recall much, but I do remember the spiders pulling my knives away, and it was not long after that that they strung us up.”

I spent a little while longer getting assurances that everyone was satisfied with the plan, such as it was, and that they had given some thought to what to do if the spiders came back – although I did not think it likely that they would – and so I pulled myself back onto the back of Khamûl’s warg, with Angmar and Hoarmurath taking the other, and we set off back into the forest.

\----

It was something of a stroke of luck that we encountered an elvish patrol just on the edge of spider territory. I suppose they were waiting to see if any of the dwarves managed to escape and come out this way. It was rather less lucky for them that they instead ran into us. 

After everything that had happened, seeing my friends about to be eaten by spiders and with Thorin still missing, I was in no mood to be pleasant. I had grown accustomed to anger after all my practise using it against the Ring, and it burned within me now, a hatred of these sculpture-pretty people, arrogantly thinking themselves better than the other races of Middle-Earth, selfishly keeping the secrets of their knowledge amongst themselves, keeping themselves apart and refusing to offer aid. They were not Thranduil but they were his soldiers, and so I had no compunction about ordering us to attack. 

There were not many of them, half a dozen mounted on fine-boned horses, clad in leather armour and armed with slender, bannered spears and light, curved sabres. Angmar slipped from his mount and circled round to guard their rear, and then with an unearthly shriek from the Nazgûl we had the wargs in amongst them, their fierce teeth closing over equine legs and shattering them, snapping and snarling and causing such confusion that those steeds left uninjured reared and panicked, throwing their riders and fleeing into the path of Angmar’s razor-edged blade. 

Taken by surprise, the elves still reacted with swiftness. We were in too close for spear-work, but their sabres were quick to flash out. Khamûl whirled our warg round, the snake-quick strike of his sword turned aside by equally quick reflexes. I drew on the strength of the Ring, knowing I would never be able to keep up with the speed of the battle without it. My own blade was out, though it felt a little inadequate compared to all the others. 

The elves attacked, some drawing blood from the wargs, although not from the Wraiths, for they had no blood to give. Nazgûl-blades lashed out, and an elf was on the ground and groaning, his chest split and his innards spilling out in a wet mess of blood and viscera. My stomach turned and I looked away. This was not the relatively clean fight against spiders, whose alien bodies did not offer up such sights. It was worse than killing the creature Gollum. 

_Look! Look!_ The Ring cried to me, joyous in this shedding of blood. _Take your revenge and exult in it! Slaughter Illuvatar’s haughty children!_

I had little chance to indulge my squeamishness; the battle was far from over. An elf darted in, dodging the snap of the warg’s jaws, and thrust at me. My sword rose out of an automatic reaction schooled into me by Thorin’s lessons and turned it aside, sliding down ‘til I jinked it past the guard and plunged it beneath his arm. Blood came when I pulled it free, and a gusting wheeze of air. From the Ring came the knowledge that I had punctured a lung and given a slow, unpleasant death. 

I straightened up upon my mount, which was now circling with its pair around the two elves left alive, standing back to back, wide-eyed with surprise and fear. Angmar appeared out of the tree-shadows at the edge of the clearing, blood dripping down his blade. He was grim-faced, but some part of me felt his satisfaction. 

“You dare come here?” one of the elves shouted, and I saw that he was in fact a she. “The White Council drove your foul master from his fortress, and they will come after you next!”

I was in no mood for the sort of silly posturing that we could easily fall into, the kind where I declared that no, I was the master now, and their surprise and scorn, and insults bandied back and forth and so on and so on. It was not my experience I was drawing on at that moment, I knew that much, but I recognised the truth of it anyway. I nodded to Hoarmurath, and he darted in, warg and sword striking such that it was only possible to deflect one. The male elf blocked the Wraith-blade and tried to dodge the teeth, but he did not quite manage it. He screamed as the beast latched onto his arm and tore into him. I turned my attention to the last warrior, who had rapidly backed away from the carnage. 

“Where is Thranduil’s fortress?” I demanded. “Where did he take Thorin Oakenshield?”

“I should have known those treacherous stillbirths-of-the-earth were in league with Sauron’s evil,” she said, raising her sword and leaping towards us. Our warg snapped at her heels and missed, but Khamûl’s blade clashed against hers, ghost-sparks flying. She cursed us in Sindarin and fell back, narrowly missing Hoarmurath coming for her. Then Angmar was there, turning her sabre aside with a flick of his blade, catching it in some complicated twist and sending it flying. All three Nazgûl were radiating some kind of ambient magic-song. It washed over me like a cool breeze, but its effect on the elf was much more marked. She was pale and trembling with fear, yet still she held her ground.

“Surrender and tell us the path to Thranduil’s fortress, and it shall go well with you,” I said, as sternly and commandingly as I knew how. 

“I shall never submit to evil,” she replied, and I saw by her face how determined she was. We would get nowhere be asking nicely. 

“Do you know where we ought to be heading after this?” I asked Khamûl quietly, twisting slightly in my seat. 

“Perhaps my lord, but it would be easier if we force her to tell us.”

I had a good enough idea of what that meant, but it was one thing torturing a sort-of inanimate object – I was honest enough with myself at that point to call it what it had been – but doing it to a living being was another thing entirely. A quick and honest death was one thing, but long and protracted and agonising? No. At that point in my life my stomach was not strong enough to do what needed to be done unless there was no hope of finding any other way. 

“No,” I said. “There is little time in any case.” Not entirely a lie, but said more as an excuse than as a real reason. I motioned to Angmar, extending my will out in silent communication. He nodded, and ghost-steel flashed. Blood soaked brown locks. A head fell on the sward. I looked away, disquieted. I hoped I had made the right decision.

\----

We rode north under the late afternoon sun. Angmar and Hoarmurath were more insubstantial than ever, since I was still keeping myself in the physical world. There was light enough filtering down between the branches to make out faint shadow-forms, but a casual glance would have revealed only a speeding warg. 

I spent the while casting my mind out, listening for the vague sense of elf-song, or something like it that might mean their kind of magic was nearby. Even if I had not encountered it already, the Ring knew what to look for, was eager in searching it out. Its hate was strong. It seemed, from the vague impressions that I was getting, that there was a long history of conflict between Mairon and the elves, which did not much surprise me considering that he seemed to be some sort of evil overlord. That other name for him, Sauron, which the Wraiths disliked so much, also sounded familiar from some book or other. 

Thranduil’s stronghold was not too far away, and in the end we did not have too much trouble finding it. I felt more sure in my decision to give that last elf a quick death. We had not needed her information after all. 

The fortress was – to my surprise – built underground. A wide and fair bridge spanned a dark river ahead of us; no doubt a tributary of that same black and enchanted flow coming down from the mountains. Two massive beech trees guarded the path on the other side, leading up to a set of massive stone doors inscribed with many words of protection in both Tengwar and Cirth runes leading into the side of some tall and steep hill. It put me somewhat in mind of a great _smial_ of the Shire, if on a rather different scale. I could not imagine it ran as deep as dwarven halls, though the Ring recognised dwarven work in the doors’ shaping. Not too proud to pay for their workmanship then, merely too proud to offer them help when it was needed!

“What now?” I wondered aloud. “We shall have some trouble getting through those doors, surely.”

“We wait for the others,” Angmar replied, “and we wait for darkness when our powers will be stronger. I shall prepare a spell to break open those gates.” Something in his dry, cold, voice sounded pleased. 

Again he spoke wisely, and we dismounted and settled in for nightfall. It was not too far off at this point, and I did not feel confident at taking on who knew how many elves without the rest of the Nine. I knew instinctively that they would be stronger when they were all together. Apart, they were like the individual instruments in a composition, and the song would not come together until all the strains flowed as one. 

The Ring gave me names as their owners arrived. First was Akhorahil, of the same people as Angmar, and Uvatha, who had once been a Lord of a nomadic people that had settled in the lands north of Gondor in years long after his un-death. Their wargs were burdened with baggage as Angmar’s had been when we first met, and I wondered where he had hidden whatever it was he had been carrying. After that were Dwar and Ji Indur, also called Dawndeath, both from lands to the far east, past the Lonely Mountain, past even the Iron Hills, not even on any map I had ever seen. They greeted the others with respectful nods of their head, bowing to Angmar and watching me warily. 

Finally came Ren, and Adûnaphel the Quiet, who turned out to be a Queen rather than a King, a fact that Angmar had neglected to mention. Not that it would have been possible for me to tell without the Ring’s knowledge, for she was clad in the same ghostly, tattered robes as the others, and un-death had left her features as gaunt as a skull. 

“That is all of you then,” I said, counting them. Twilight was settling over the forest. “You who have just joined our number may be surprised at me, but I assure you that I _am_ master of Mairon’s Ring. I have called you to me to attack this elven stronghold and rescue Thorin Oakenshield, my friend and ally, who is rightful King-Under-The-Mountain. I understand that you have a certain interest in killing elves.” 

Uvatha and Ren both laughed, a guttering exhale like the wind battering tree branches against a hard surface. Eager gazes were fixed upon me, hands wound tight in their wargs’ fur, heels ready to spur the sides of their steeds and leap on to the attack. 

“Angmar, are you ready?” I asked. 

The Witch-King nodded. Indeed, I could feel the melody of his spell wound around him, a harsh drum-beat sound that pulsed with the smell of something acrid and burning with each loud thump. A heat that was not heat radiated out from his clenched fists. 

I did not need to voice the command to ride out. I mounted Khamûl’s warg; they perceived my will and we sprung forth, Angmar at our head. He was calling more power to him with harsh words of Ancient Numenor, pulling it from the rings borne by his kin and from my Ring, a little siphon that I barely noticed. He did not need too much of the One’s strength. 

As we reached the crest of the bridge’s gentle rise he let the spell loose with a great cry like a hawk in the stoop. Green witch-light burst forth, and a vast explosion shattered the stone doors like glass, trembling through the earth and air. I felt its rumble in my chest. The fearsome Nazgûl shriek filled the air to herald our coming. 

There had been guards on the gate, but not many, not when they seemed so strong and secure. They had been much hurt by the blast that split the doors apart, torn by flying shards of rock, and they lay moaning with their blood soaking the ground. We left them to die or not as fate willed it. 

Past the gates was a large hall and many corridors splitting off from it, going back into the hill. A small party of elves in fine robes had been sitting talking at the far end, and now they were on their feet and looking about them in alarm. They did not seem to know what to do. We were upon them before they had a chance to decide. Nazgûl-blades dealt deadly wounds. Some of them turned to flee. 

“Hold,” I ordered. “Let them go if they run. We are here for a reason, and aside from Thranduil, whom I would see dead, I care not if his subjects live or die. If they are soldiers, or they attack us, then by all means we shall kill them, but if they surrender let them be.”

There were some murmurs of discontent, but the Nine seemed willing enough to abide by my wishes. We split into three groups, each taking a different route out of the hall. With the awareness of the Ring I was able to keep track of where each of us were in this unfamiliar territory. We could cover more ground this way, and I would know if one of us came across the dungeons where Thorin was no doubt being held. 

The paths and curving hallways of the elf-fortress were high and wide enough for the wargs to pass freely, and lit with bright-burning torches. Angmar and Akhorahil cast faint, rippling shadows on the floor as we went, and Khamûl was a comfortingly solid weight at my back. Unseen to the eye the wraiths may have been, but they could be touched and felt much like any other being. 

We were attacked no few times. Elves in bright armour wielding halberds were waiting for us as we turned one corner, archers behind them. Arrows whined, and I threw up my hand with a flash of instinctive power. The spell-song of the Ring rose, deep, melodious, glorious. The deadly missiles splintered, missed their mark and wasted themselves on stone and rich tapestries. My sword glowed with new light, white and harsh. The wargs snarled, and we charged. 

These were the some of the best of Thranduil’s guard, ancient warriors and deadly; they had been practising their art for centuries. But so had the Nazgûl, and they could not be killed by simple steel. It would be a powerfully enchanted blade that wounded any of them, a Glamdring or an Orcrist, and for all their lithe speed and silken grace, the elves were no match for them. The wargs however were not so lucky. They were but mortal beasts, and easily felled. 

The dying howls of our steeds filling my ears, and the strength of the Ring surging through my veins, I fought as well as I was able. I might have only had a few lessons with Thorin, but they had stuck in the memory of both mind and body, and I was a small target. The Ring made me fast, and seemed to give me a knack for dodging the great sweeps of the halberds with hairs-breadths to spare. Whatever witch-power the Ring had put on my elven blade, it cleaved through armour as easily as it did flesh. Blood and bodies littered the floor. 

In that chaos of battle, the Nazgûl fighting beside me in a whirl of dark swords and half-seen shapes, I do not know how long it took us to slay that first group. Not long enough for more reinforcements to come to their aid, at any rate. When it was over I was left panting, adrenaline and Ring-power pushing all my senses to their limits. Blood spray had quite ruined my waistcoat, painted my face and hair, was sizzling from the white glow of my sword. 

“Letter opener indeed,” I said to myself. “It has opened up these elves easily enough, though they are made of something rather tougher than paper.”

 _Eldanqualë you should call it,_ the Ring told me. _Elf’s Death._

“Eldanqualë,” I repeated. “Yes. It is a fine name.” 

“We should continue on,” Angmar said, wiping gore from his blade on an elven cloak. I nodded, and we headed on down the passageway. The others of the Nine had run into similar resistance, with similar results. I was sure that there would be more coming once they organised themselves, but for the moment we still had some of the element of surprise. It would be well to take advantage of that. 

\---

As I said, that was not the last attack the elves mounted upon us before we reached our goal. Many times we went past trap-halls where elves rained arrows upon us from hidden walkways, heedless of the fact that they could not hurt the Wraiths, and the Ring turned them easily aside from me. They came at us from side rooms and hidden ways also, but none had weapons forged with the strength to kill the Nine. They fought valiantly but they could not help but die, and I felt no guilt for it. Their king had brought this upon them with his evil, and back in the Shire, any Thain or Mayor who acted so abominably would have been driven out of his office. They had not done so in all the years since Erebor’s fall, so they were just as to blame as Thranduil. 

I do not pretend that the violence of it all did not affect me, but that was to come afterwards, when the Ring’s strength waned from me and I no longer felt its bloodlust in the back of my head, protecting me from what I was doing. It was necessary and certainly better than letting them keep Thorin unjustly, or faltering during battle and letting them kill me. That did not change the fact that it was much closer work than any I had yet done, and to a much greater degree in the numbers slain. By the time we came upon the throne-room I stank with the rankness of spilled viscera and my own sweat. 

“The Elven-King is within,” Akhorahil said, gesturing with his sword at the door that now barred our way. It had been guarded by the greatest concentration of elves yet, and killing them had been trying work, made worse by the fact that injuries did not seem to be enough to stop them. So great was their determination that they would pull themselves back into the attack until they passed out from loss of blood or we struck them down more finally. 

“Good,” I said, grim-faced. I was glad at least that the elves who were not soldiers had fled to other parts of the citadel. I did not mean to lay waste to their home and make myself a hypocrite, only take back what was rightfully mine. (In the heat of those moments, I was not aware how possessively I was thinking of Thorin. I had not quite yet realised how much he meant to me.)

Angmar burst this door as he had the other, and we strode into the great room beyond that was high ceilinged and arrayed with beautiful things. The three Nazgûl fanned out behind me. Their kin were still enmeshed in fighting elsewhere in the mess of hallways. We would be doing this without their strength to add to our own, but I had no fear. I knew we would prevail. How could we not? The Ring was puissant indeed. 

Thranduil had dressed himself in fine armour, and bore a long sword waiting in his right hand. Although his stance seemed relaxed, the blade’s tip just brushing the ground, the knowledge granted me by the Ring let me know he was ready to strike at any moment. His guard were arrayed around him. 

“Has Sauron the Foul taken on some new form?” the Elf-King asked. “What hole have you crawled from after so many centuries? Have you forgotten the lesson we taught you on the plains of Mordor itself?” ” He sounded haughty, defiant, but there was a hint of fear lurking under the surface. He had seen the destruction we had wrought. 

“No,” I said, holding up my hand, showing the Ring for all to see. “I am not this Sauron, but I have something that once was his. I am sure you know of it. I am the Master of the One Ring now.” 

He paled, and a fearful susurrus rose amongst his guards. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why have you come here?”

“I have come for Thorin Oakenshield,” I said, and watched the emotions play across his face that he could not quite hide. Surprise, and rage, and the kind of half-satisfied disgust that comes when one is proven right about some undesirable person whom you have long suspected ill of. It curdled my stomach and ignited my rage. 

“I have heard of your ill deeds before Erebor’s walls!” I cried, and if I could have seen myself in that moment I would not have recognised myself. “I pass judgement on you, for it seems none else will! Face me and die, King Thranduil!”

It was as clear a challenge to a duel as I knew how. Eldanqualë was glowing in my hand, pulsing in time to the beat of my angered heart. I wore no armour, but I was not afraid. I was sure in the knowledge of my own supremacy, the Ring’s gift to me. 

He stepped forward, regal and as elegant as ever. “So be it, you arrogant and evil creature. I know not what you are, but as Isildur laid Sauron low, so shall I you.” 

I was the first to attack. My short stature meant I had none of his reach, and my footwork had to be unnaturally fast to even have a hope of matching his. Still, he was obviously not expecting me to be as swift as I was, and his move to block me came late. I scored his forearm, slicing clean through his vambraces, and his eyes narrowed with pain. He didn’t let it hinder him though, and he retaliated with a flurry of blows like the pounding of a smith’s hammer against metal, using gravity against me. 

I put my trust in the Ring’s senses and instincts after that; I had to in order to survive. I dodged, I turned his blade aside with the delicate application of force at the right time and place, I eeled past his guard when he had to overextend himself down to my level. I focused on injuring him for the moment. I could not score a blow above his waist without leaving myself open, so I had to hope to hurt him enough to force him to his knees. 

We were very evenly matched. It was clear he had not become King merely for his beauty – although I confess I was not overly sure how elves _did_ choose their leaders. That it might be whomever was the most fine of features was not entirely outside the realm of possibility. Thranduil was a very fine warrior as well though. His sword was a thing to be wary of also. It was very old, and wrought with spells in the making of it. Were this one of my Wraiths in the fight, they would need to fear it. For myself, I had whatever protection against it that the Ring gave me, and that was nothing to sneer at. 

It was luck, as with so many things, that gave me the opening I needed, although one of us would have eventually tired enough to create a similar opportunity in the end. His armour was crafted to fight someone of his own height or a little less, and so it did not protect from the angle of my blows as well as it might. Even as unnaturally sharp as Eldanqualë was, it might not have sunk deep enough if circumstances had been different. 

I ducked under a swipe intended to take off my head. Hungry and seeking for blood, my blade thrust forward towards the place where his leg met his body, where the shared Ring-knowledge told me ran one of the great blood vessels. It found its mark, cut in, through, pierced the life-place. Blood came, a heavy, rich rain, spurting with his elf-slow heartbeats. I leapt back as he staggered, dropping his sword as both hands went to stem the flow, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

Elves heal fast, and they are much tougher than their slight frames would ever indicate. It took Thranduil a long time to die. Several of his guards made motions to come forward and help him, but the Nazgûl were still there, and the threat of death when they raised their blades in warning returned the elves to their places. I felt their fear as though it were a piece of spell-craft, dirtying the air. 

“The dragon...” Thranduil said, as fresh red blood streamed past the barrier of his fingers. “The dragon will kill you and your curséd dwarvish servants, even if the might of the elves cannot.”

“We shall see,” I replied. That was in the future, and I would deal with that when it came. 

“Sauron has been cast down before.” Thranduil’s voice was growing weaker. “And whatever you are, you are not of the Maiar. The Istari will come for you, or they will raise the armies of men and elves. Erebor may be a fortress, but it will not stand against that weapon hunger. Gold and gems cannot be eaten.”

“We shall see,” I repeated. In all honesty, I had not yet considered what I might do if we did manage to retake Erebor. I certainly did not have any wish to return home at this point. I was too changed; I could not imagine going back to the life I had had. On the other hand Gandalf would probably show up again at some point, and although I felt entirely justified in my own actions, I could not be sure he would see it that way. I did not believe myself to be evil merely because I had learned how to use the tools of the evil Necromancer Mairon. They were just that; tools. I hoped I could convince him of the same. Certainly I had no intentions at that point of ruling over the kingdoms of Middle-Earth. That came much later.

Finally Thranduil passed out of consciousness, and eventually out of life itself. The flow of blood from his leg grew sluggish, seeping rather than pulsing, and his paleness became the paleness of death. Choked cries rose up from many amongst his guard. I glared at them. I did not think they had a right to mourn, considering what he had done. He had not been a very pleasant person. 

Still, I had what I had mostly wanted. I had taken the dwarves’ revenge. I could be merciful. “Take me to Thorin Oakenshield, and we shall leave here without further slaughter,” I announced to the crowd of them. 

I could see how much it rankled with them. How much they would have preferred to try once more to kill us. But they had seen how easily we had slain those who stood in our way before we got here, and that I had managed to kill their King without much more than a few negligible scratches on me. This was not the time to attack us. This was the time to regroup, to wait for a better moment. 

“Very well,” one of them said, stepping forward. His helmet bore a crest of feathers. “I shall take you to the dungeons.”

I motioned for him to lead the way. Now that my focus was not on the battle, I became aware once more of the others of the Nine. They had sensed the fight and were moving towards us. We would no doubt meet them as we walked. As we left the hall, the elf in front of me and the three Nazgûl behind, I noticed the elf prince who had spoken in the dwarves’ favour in the forest. He was slumped against a pillar, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He did not look at me. 

I felt sorrow then, not for Thranduil, but for his son. He had no part in his father’s ill acts, and he was bound to him by the bonds of blood. It was a pity, but I had done what I had to do. I did not think on him any further, which in the fullness of time did not go very well for either of us. But that is a story that comes much later. 

The dungeons were not far, but deeper in the earth, down circling stairs to where things started to look more like real caves, rather than carved rooms. I wondered if this was meant to be some meagre kindness, or whether this seemed unpleasant enough to the elves that they would assume Thorin would also find it so. The other Nazgûl fell into step behind us as we went, and before long we came to a heavy, thick, metal door, slatted to allow the passage of food. The elf unlocked it, and pulled the door aside with effort. I went in. 

Thorin was looking very bedraggled indeed, chained to the wall, stripped of his armour, but the fire was still in his eyes. He looked up as I entered, and gazed at me in astonishment. I smiled. 

“Bilbo, what on earth..? How did you get the key?” He had not yet seen the soldier outside, or the shadow-forms of the Wraiths. 

I could not help the happiness that rose in my heart, the gladness that he was unharmed, the joy of seeing him safe. I grabbed him into an embrace such as the one he had given me atop the Carrock, and he returned it gladly. We broke apart eventually, and then, quite surprising both him and myself, for it was an act of sheer impulse, I pulled him in once again to press my lips to his. 

Finally I made sense of my feelings. I was in love with Thorin Oakenshield. And I would not have it any other way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin is properly rescued, certain explanations are made, and the Company reach Laketown.

We spent a while like that, entwined and kissing. I could not keep my hands from roving over Thorin’s body, assuring myself that he was not hurt anywhere other than his dignity and pride – though for an exiled King such as he was, that was pain enough. He tangled the fingers of one hand in my curls, holding me tight to him with the other around my waist. I am sure that those outside the little cell wondered what was taking us so long, but I would not draw away from this a moment sooner than I had to. It was wonderful, pressed into the heat of him, feeling the strength of his muscles, his big, stocky form that could easily hold me to the ground if he so chose – or rather, could have before the gifts of the Ring. Never mind that, it was still seductive even now. 

Eventually though we did have to break apart. Thorin smiled down at me, a rare emotion on his face. He stroked through my hair with a softness that made me think he was not entirely aware that he was doing it. Then his eyes narrowed, and he moved his hand down to wipe at something on my cheek. 

“Bilbo, is this blood?” he asked, with frank disbelief. “What on earth? What _have_ you been up to?”

A gave a shaky little laugh. Things were starting to catch up with me now. “I do not think you would believe me if I told you,” I replied. “But come on, let’s get out of here. Neither of us wants to be here any longer than we must.”

He nodded at that, though I could see he was not about to give up his questioning quite that easily. We went back out into the corridor, where the light happened to be better. I looked down at myself and winced. I was entirely a mess. I was caked in blood and worse things, marks of our slaughter. I was only surprised Thorin had not noticed it sooner, or commented on how badly I stank. I could only put it down to the surprise of seeing me there. 

“Yes,” I said, “I can see how this might require a little explanation.” The elf guard, waiting by the cell door, glared at me. Perhaps he did not appreciate the lightness of my tone. 

“I should say so,” Thorin replied, looking at me wide eyed. “Is that elvish blood? I do not mean to doubt you as I have before, but I cannot see how to believe the evidence of my own eyes.”

“I did not come here alone, for one thing,” I said. “My insubstantial friends here have no love for elves, and are more to be credited for winning the day against Thranduil’s guards than I.” I waved at the Nine, Khamûl visible in his be-spelled robes, the others only to be seen by their blood-slicked swords. That they were still out and not in their sheathes reminded me that I had been remiss in cleaning my own blade off before putting it away. I winced. This was not a habit I wanted to fall into. 

“What are these creatures?” Thorin asked, looking them up and down. Perhaps his dwarven eyes could see better in the dark then mine, for it seemed he could make them out better than I could whilst walking the material world. “I have never seen their like before.”

“Creatures, he calls us,” Hoarmurath said derisively. It was, admittedly, made the more intimidating by his ghostly, rasping voice. “Where are the thanks for his rescue? It seems Kings have lost their sense of manners since the days in which we ruled.”

“We are the Nine,” Angmar said, in dolorous tones, and I could tell he was about to start recounting their many names, deeds and high lineages again, which I had little interest in hearing repeated. I cut him off quickly. 

“They are allies,” I said. “And they... serve me, for lack of a better term. I promise there will be a better explanation, but I have sworn to give it also to the rest of the Company, and it is better to do it all in one piece. They are waiting for us – we should not make them wait longer.”

“Very well,” Thorin said. “I shall save my questions for now, my noble rescuer. But I would know what has become of Thranduil.”

“He is dead,” I said. “I’m sorry if I’ve taken away your revenge, but I had to kill him. He wouldn’t let you go, and his guards wouldn’t stop fighting otherwise.”

“You..?” He was stunned into silence.

“As I said, I have a lot to tell you,” I said, with an apologetic smile. I turned to the sullen guard. “And as for you, since your folk could not bring yourselves to offer help the last time you encountered dwarves needing your aid, I rather think you should offer them some small measure to make up for it now! We shall need food and supplies for thirteen, and horses to carry them.” I surmised that all the other wargs had died in the attack, which was rather a shame. Some had been laden with the Nazgûl’s baggage though, and we would need to have beasts to carry that as well. 

As much as the elf did not want to do as I said, he was well aware of what the Nine could do if his people did not comply. He grudgingly led us to storage chambers, gathering others to bear full packs, flagons and bags, before escorting us out of the stronghold via the stables. Ren, Uvatha and Dwar split off to retrieve the other luggage and met us there, following their sense of the Ring’s location to guide the way. These stables were above ground, but cunningly concealed beneath overhanging bluffs. The elegant elven horses were soon laden with the best of Thranduil’s cellars. They did have a tendency to shy away and roll their eyes wildly whenever any of the Wraiths came too near, but that mattered little, for we had no intentions of riding them, and they were docile enough and easily led when tied to each other by their reins. 

It was with such a cavalcade that we made our way back to the spider’s clearing and the rest of the Company., although I took a moment to clean myself and Eldanqualë in the river, the Ring’s magic making me proof against the water’s enchantments. Then we were gone from that place, never to return.

\----

Telling the story of everything that had happened – that I had kept from the Company – since I first found the Ring, was not a quick process. The dwarves would insist on interrupting with questions at every available opportunity, despite my insistence that if they would just sit down and listen I would give them all the answers in good time. It was only a sharp command from Thorin that prompted them into silence. At least I had ordered the Nazgûl off a little way into the forest, so I did not have to face any disapproving looks from them. Eventually however, everything came out. My nights spent communing with the Ring, wearing down its stubborn will, finally besting it in that dark shadow-place. Angmar coming to me, using my newly discovered spell-craft to wake Bombur, the attack on the spider-camp that had freed them. Invading the elven stronghold. The slaughter there. 

Somewhat predictably, that last part was their favourite. Dwalin went so far as to clap me heavily on the back and declare my deeds worthy of a hero’s song. Oin, Gloin, Fili and Kili all nodded approvingly. For myself I was not overly proud of the killing I had commanded. I could not dislike the end result, and I knew that it was in truth the only way events could have gone, but I regretted the pride and selfishness of the elves that had begun this whole vendetta that I had become involved in and hence led in this round-about way to their doom. Still, it could not be undone, and I had to come to terms with my actions. Always, I must consider what was necessary, what must be done, and have the courage to do it. Even if it was messy, even if it was unpleasant. 

It was different for the dwarves. They were a warrior race, fighters all, and battle was a part of their culture. Not so for hobbits. Could I even truly call myself a hobbit anymore? I had known this adventure would change me, and so it had, but to much greater an extent than I ever could have imagined. It would all be worth it in the end though if I could see Thorin returned to his kingdom and the dwarves of Erebor to their home. 

“I am still not sure these Wraiths, as you call them, are to be trusted,” Balin said, once my tale was finished. “But if, as you say, they cannot act against you, I do not suppose we have anything to fear.” 

“I am curious though,” Thorin said, “of the precise nature of this One Ring, and of its previous owner. I recall legends of my people, more tales for children than anything, passed down from the days of Durin III and the gifting of the Seven Rings. As the story goes, there existed some dark artefact meant to corrupt the gifts of the Elf-Smith – the myth-character we call Khathuzh-khebabâl. I would believe it of an elf to give poisoned gifts, but this poison was not of his making. It was the creation of an Urkhas; a demon, a servant of the God of Fire, he who is the dark twin of Mahal. I have heard it connected in some versions of the tale with this name Sauron, and some say that in later days he was the hidden master behind the Kingdom of Angmar – whose King was a master of sorcery, and whom I have no doubt is the one now sworn into your service. So you see how I am not sure the powers of this Ring are... safe.”

“I do not doubt it has been used for evil deeds in the past,” I said, looking down at it, sitting warm and golden on my finger. “But I have broken it and mastered it, and I intend to use it for good. I don’t put much stock in old tales, I suppose. Demons and gods... these are far outside my knowledge, or the knowledge of any hobbit. We have none of our own, you see, and we do not claim those of any other race as our own.”

“Hmmm,” Thorin said, still looking uneasy, but said nothing more on that matter at that point. 

Dori did though. “Mahal is certainly real,” he said, sounding a little put out. Nori rolled his eyes and mouthed something that might have been ‘here we go again’. Dori must have seen him, for he continued angrily; “I’ll not hear anyone say different! Those who say He no longer watches over his people are speaking nonsense. Don’t forget He defied his Father to create us, do you think a god who loved us as much as that would abandon us? We might not see His hand at work, for He is subtle in his crafting, but just look at the good luck we have had in Mr Baggins coming across this ring!” 

“Sorry brother,” Nori said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture.

“It does none of us credit to be speaking of private matters of religion like this,” Thorin said. “And Bilbo cannot be held to the same standards – he is not, after all, a dwarf.”

“Well...” Dori went red with embarrassment. “No, I am sorry King Thorin, Mr Baggins, that was rather rude of me. I just find it very disappointing when young dwarves these days forget the old ways. I have always taught Ori better.” I didn’t miss the nervous looks on Fili and Kili’s faces when he said that, and tried to keep from laughing.

“In any case,” I said, eager to return the topic back to the Ring and its provenance. “The previous owner of the Ring, be his name Mairon, or Sauron, or the Necromancer, or whatever you wish to call him, resides a long way off to the south, in some fortress of his own called Dol Guldur. He has not had this Ring in his possession for a very long time indeed. Not for thousands of years, if the Ring itself is to be believed. Whatever power he had over it surely cannot remain. Indeed, I doubt he knows it has been found again. He is no threat to us.” 

“I suppose after so long, a certain amount of the evil would leach out, diminish, or whatever,” Kili said, coming a little closer to peer at the simple band. “I think it’s okay. Be good against dragons anyway, I’ll bet!” 

“So that is basically it,” I said to the Company at large. “That is how I came by the Ring, and got the help of the Nazgûl, and was able to rescue you all from elves and spiders. And aside from all the other powers it gives me, it bestows the ability to become invisible, which I think will be rather useful for burglary, don’t you?”

“Agreed,” Dwalin said. “Our burglar has done well.” 

I smiled at everyone, glad now that it was all out in the open. Despite that my instincts had kept on telling me to keep the Ring secret, I had never been entirely comfortable with doing so, and I admitted they were right to be cautious about it. I did not think it could lie to me, about itself or its history, but the possibility still remained. The advantages it gave us, gave me, were well worth it however. 

After that, we rested in the spider’s clearing until the next morning. Then it was off on the path out of Mirkwood, back on the way towards the Lonely Mountain. I was looking forward to getting out of the forest.

\----

The thing that nestled, new-born and delicate, between Thorin and I manifested itself after that in the careful meaning of our touches, of the way we pressed close during sword practise, which was now less about teaching me and more about having time together. I could use the knowledge of the ring to pull muscle-memory into my body, ingrain patterns of movement, write in reflex. I matched Thorin now, and so we did not fight so much as dance in the way that surely all dwarven dances must be like. It was... good. 

We slept at each others’ side during the nights as well, curled up back to back. It was not all that I wanted; rather I would have entwined with him under the blanket of his furred cloak, but I perceived that he did not quite want to broach the subject of our feelings for each other with the rest of the Company. I did not push. His reasons were his own, and no doubt were due to some point of culture I was not aware of. I knew he would take things further when he was ready, and perhaps there was some finer point of courting as the dwarves did it that meant we had to wait. I did not mind. We had time.

We walked only a few days before we reached the outskirts of the forest, with the Nazgûl winding unseen away from the path as careful guards on all sides. The darkness of the days and nights was suddenly replaced by the sun of early autumn, the wind in our hair and against our faces, green grass, blue skies, heavy branches folding back like curtains to reveal the open world that we had so missed. Forests in general were not bad, I thought to myself, but this one in particular left a lot to be desired. I was glad to be out.

To our north we could just about glimpse the dark Mirkwood river winding out from under the trees, bounded by marshland to the left and grasslands to the right where our road lay. But that was not what fixed our attention. Ahead of us, rising tall and powerful against the sky, was the Lonely Mountain itself, singular, like a monument, a standing stone writ massive, monstrous, wreathed in specks of misty cloud. The sun was falling on its slopes and turning them to gold. I sighed to see it, and I was certainly not the only one. 

The path onwards was not as obvious as the mountain. It petered out onto sparse highland meadows and was lost. Nor were these grasslands as safe as they had first appeared. It must have been a wet spring and summer earlier in the year, for there were young bogs hidden everywhere in dips in the ground, heavy mud no easier to cross for all it was untouched, strange lies of the land which hid the way ahead and made it easy to get turned around when the clouds came and hid the sun. If it were not for the unerring sense of direction the Ring-wraiths possessed, we should very soon have been lost entirely. 

The sun was not so hot here as it had been in Mirkwood. The gusts and breezes had a chill to them, coming down from the desolate Grey Mountains far to the north. Still it was better than the forest, and we had packed sufficient tinder onto the horses to have a meagre fire each night, which was a great comfort to all of us save the Nazgûl, who were not fond of it at all. It might once have been their old master’s element, but their un-death had left them nervous of it, perhaps some corpse-nature recalling the flammability of dry bones or the memory of Númenorian funeral pyres, although they were not truly dead and had never truly died, and thus had nothing really to fear. 

We tracked closer to the river at several points, forced by the vagaries of the landscape. It turned out there were several small villages of Men dotted along the length of the watercourse that made their living helping along trade between Thranduil’s holdings in Mirkwood and a large town or small city called Laketown which, it transpired, was where the survivors of Smaug’s attack on Dale had fled and resettled. I wondered how that trade would be affected by the Elf-King’s death. These villages did give us the opportunity to trade for some simple black robes, boots and gloves, which Angmar then enchanted for the Nine. I think it made all the Company more at ease when they were able to see them properly, and if we were to walk amongst the race of Men, better the Wraiths could pass for something more natural than what they were. 

After some days further travel we at last came to where the river opened out into the Long Lake, a great body of water that stretched for some miles north to south. I had never seen its like. We had nothing that even came close to its size in the Shire, and hobbits have no great fondness for water in any case. Soft waves lapped against a stony shore, and the mouth of the river spilled down in a series of falls between two towers of rock like open gates. Water churned into white, and the sky painted with all the ruddy colours of the setting sun turned all to fire. 

Not far from where we stood on the bank above the shoreline was a ridge of stone jutting out quite some way into the lake itself, forming a calm bay to the south where was built the strangest town I had ever seen. Hundreds upon hundreds of stilts and supports had been sunk into the lake bed, each of which was the trunk of a great Mirkwood tree, and upon them built houses and halls and walkways, and a great bridge leading back to the beach. A few more small huts sat there like guardhouses or watch-posts, but the majority of the settlement was out upon the waters. 

This then was Laketown, and all that was left of the once-great city of Dale. As I later found out, they had survived this long on trade from the forest and from the Iron Mountains where lived Thorin’s cousin Dain and his people. It was a decent life, even despite the ever-present threat of the dragon, but Smaug had not left the mountain in many years, so that many in the town no longer gave much credit to the stories of their fathers and grand-fathers. Still, such songs were still sung of the days of the Fire-drake, and of the dwarves of Erebor in times no living Man remembered. 

Thorin, Balin and I held a quick conference with Angmar and Khamûl. We would need better information about the lands around the Lonely Mountain than our old map could give us. It had been at least a century since any of the dwarves had been in these parts, and none of us knew how much things might have changed. Also more supplies might be of use, and it would be pleasant in the extreme to have the luxury of sleeping on a real bed for the first time in many months, even if it were only the meagre offerings of some inn. 

It was therefore agreed that we would go into the town on the morrow once dawn came. The Nazgûl would raise enough suspicion for their dark robes and the fact that they never showed their faces in daylight without coming over the bridge in the dark like the Wraiths they were. We thus camped down for the night, setting our fire in the lee of a rocky outcropping so that its light could not be seen from the lake. I was scraping up the last of the soup Bombur had made for us and contemplating way of dealing with a dragon when Angmar approached me and requested a quiet word in private. Curious, I followed him over to where we had billeted the horses.

“We have all noticed your... closeness to this dwarven king,” he began, and I did not need the powers of the Ring to detect his distain. “He is the son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin, is he not?”

“That’s right,” I replied, wondering where this was going. 

“One of the many artefacts we brought with us from Dol Guldur, come to us through various provenances, was a certain ring that has traditionally been passed down through that line,” Angmar said, and going to the luggage we had bundled in a pile at the base of the tree the horses were tied to, he produced something from one of the packs. He brought it back over and dropped it into my palm. It was a thick band of silver, sized for larger fingers than mine, set with a step-cut diamond, and inscribed with what I recognised to be dwarvish patterns. As I held it I thought I could feel it humming against my skin, a deep and quiet moan like the rumble of war-trumpets. It echoed in the Ring, harmonising, and I knew what this must be. 

“It is one of the Rings of Power, isn’t it,” I said. 

Angmar inclined his head. “One of the Seven. It is as their tales tell; under Mairon’s instruction Celebrimbor forged the three Elven rings, the seven Dwarven rings, and the Nine that we wear. They are all however subject to the aegis of the One. Still, Durin’s ring is a memento of Thorin’s family line, and I am sure he will appreciate it as a gift.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, somewhat surprised at this uncharacteristic show of niceness from him. 

“You should also know,” Angmar continued, with a slightly put-upon sigh, “that the giving of rings is also an important step in the dwarven courting process.” 

I should have been more suspicious then, I should have verified the nature of the other rings with the Ring itself, then we could have avoid some of the inconveniences that occurred during the business with Smaug, but I foolishly took Angmar’s helpfulness at face value. It was not even that he was lying to me, for he wasn’t capable of that. He merely contrived to fail to mention certain of the ring’s effects on its dwarven bearers. Perhaps I had left the Nazgûl on too long a leash, but they did become more willing servants in the end, and it has since been my experience that clever servants are more effective when given their head, so it did all work out for the best. 

In any case, I went immediately to where Thorin was sitting by the fire, and drawing him away a little presented him Durin’s Ring, with a quick explanation of how I had come to have it. 

“It seems every week we have you with us some new marvel occurs,” he said, taking it with fingers that shook ever so slightly. “I never thought to see my father’s ring again; we thought it lost with him. Bilbo, I can never repay you for this.”

“It’s nothing,” I insisted. “I’m happy to return it to you – it _is_ yours, after all.” I had never seen him look quite so emotional, or at least, not in a way that marked happiness instead of sorrow and loss. 

Carefully he slipped the ring onto his left hand. It looked well there, like it belonged, and I was not surprised when he pulled me up into a deep, grateful kiss. I enjoyed the press of his lips against mine, the odd scratch of his beard, so unlike anything I had ever felt before. We hobbits are unable to grow hair on our faces, you see, so I had no experience of the strange sensation. 

“Here,” he said, after we had broken apart and were standing with our foreheads pressed together. “I would have you wear this of mine.” He drew the heavy ring from his right hand and took a golden chain from one of his deep pockets, threading it onto it. Of course, it would have fallen straight off any of my fingers. “I have been... considering giving it to you for some while now.” There was a certain flush to his cheeks as he said that, lifting the chain over my head so that the ring fell and nestled against my breast. 

“Thank you,” I said, cradling it in my hand for a better look. It was set with an obsidian stone confined inside a cage of silver, heavily done in dwarvish style. “I shall keep it close.”

I wished we could do more together in that moment, sheltered in the dark of the night, but the hour was getting late and the fire burning low, and the others would soon be wondering where we were. After Erebor, I promised myself. After Erebor. 

\----

The next morning we packed everything back onto the horses before heading down to the lake, the Nazgûl walking ahead of us on foot acting the part of our bodyguards, which I suppose in some ways they were. It was a bright day, birds wheeling in the skies and their song carried down to us on the light breeze, and our party cut a fine figure, sure to have an impression on the townsfolk. 

There were guards posted at the bridge, but this early in the morning they were paying little attention to the road, and indeed they were currently having their breakfast so that the smell of frying bacon came wafting towards us, making my mouth water. We had eaten already, but I certainly would not object to a little something more if it was available. Still, it was hardly good manners for visiting travellers to stroll up and demand to be fed. 

So occupied with their meal were they that we were nearly at the bridge itself before they noticed us. Looking up and seeing how many we were, they scrambled to their feet, grabbing up sturdy spears from where they had been leaning against chairs. 

“Who are you?” one of them called out to us. “State your business.”

“I am Thorin,” our leader announced, striding between the menacing forms of the Nine. “Son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!” He held himself with all the majesty of his lineage, his mail shining in the sun, the stone of Durin’s Ring flashing fire. “I have returned to reclaim what is mine in the name of all my kin.”

This certainly caused all manner of excitement. Thirteen dwarves – or fourteen, for I am sure they did not know how else to categorise me – accompanied by nine hooded and armed men, were a strange enough sight, and it was clear we were arrayed for battle rather than trading. No travelling merchants from the Iron Hills were we, and what else then could dwarves be in the tales of Laketown other than the warriors of Erebor? 

A man who seemed to be in charge eventually quietened down the chatter and looked us over. “Who are the rest of you then, if you are who you claim?” he asked. 

“The princes Fili and Kili,” Thorin said, gesturing to them as he named them, “also of the line of Durin. Others whose families once hailed from the mountain, who have sworn to join me in our quest to slay Smaug.”

“And these sell-swords?”

I could see each of the Nine go tense with wounded pride at being called something so base as mercenaries, but we had agreed that it was the only story to explain their presence that made any sense. Certainly we did not want knowledge of the Ring to be spread far and wide and be transmuted by that magic gossip possesses. 

“Men who specialise in slaying monsters,” Thorin said. “Although they have never tackled any so big as a dragon before. Still, they are willing to risk their lives, for the reward is great.”

The Captain glanced north then, in the direction of the mountain. His eyes gleamed with the idea – I imagined the stories their bards must sing of the hoard beneath the stone. 

“Your story has the ring of truth to it,” he said finally. “But if you are to enter Laketown you cannot do so thus armed.”

“We have no intention of giving up our weapons,” Thorin replied. “And if you will not let us cross the bridge, then summon whomever is the master of your town, and let the decision be his.”

“He will not yet have risen from his bed.”

“Then send a messenger to fetch him whenever he does,” Thorin said testily. “We shall wait.” 

The Captain sent a guard off running, and so we settled down for however long it might be. The Nazgûl remained where they were, a silent phalanx. I spent my time sending out my senses into the spirit-world, questing north towards the mountain and whatever waited for us there. I felt the ghost-memory of dragon’s fire burnt into the ground, scorched soil quelled by the fear of Smaug and unwilling to grow whilst his power still lay over them. There was something within the mountain, I could feel that much, something ancient and powerful, slumbering for now, but ready to be awakened at the slightest provocation. 

No, this was not going to be easy. I only hoped the Men of Laketown would know something that might give us the edge in the battle to come. 

Such were my uneasy thoughts until, some hour later; we saw a great mass of people coming over the bridge towards us. The Master of Laketown had arrived.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company finally reaches the Mountain.

The Master was a portly man, dressed in fine clothes with a thick golden chain draped ostentatiously over his neck. He was not tall, as Men went, shorter than any of the Nine, but that still let him loom over any of the Company. He approached at the head of a large group that filled the bridge behind him, craning forward to try and get a good look at us. I heard many voices whispering to one another as Thorin stepped forwards to speak to this leader of theirs. It was clear that there was a great deal of curiosity surrounding our arrival and the mission we had professed to. 

“My good dwarf,” the Master began by saying, look us over cautiously, “welcome to Laketown. I confess in his haste the messenger who came to me was not as clear in expressing your reason for coming to our fair town as he might have been. He _claimed_ that you are of the lineage of the dwarven Kings of old, and have come to kill the dragon that is rumoured to sleep beneath the mountain to the north. Surely that cannot be true?” 

His polite words and high-browed manner, mild as it might have seemed, yet did not entirely conceal the suspicious glimmer in the man’s eyes. He certainly did not trust us, but I could not entirely blame him. It was bad enough for me at the beginning of this whole adventure when thirteen armed dwarves turned up outside my home and it could not be any more pleasant an experience for the Master, particularly not when they were joined by nine mysterious‘mercenaries’ in hooded robes. No doubt he was wondering whether we were scouting out the town’s defences in preparation of raiding it, or some similar scenario. 

There was a great sense of anticipation from the crowd, and Thorin looked them all over slowly, as though trying to gauge their exact mood before he spoke. “Your man told you truly,” he replied. “I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, called Oakenshield, rightful King-Under-The-Mountain.”

At this proclamation a great cry went up amongst the assembled townsfolk, and the whispers rose to a great roar. Men and women all were shouting out in excitement, the young children joining in simply for the joy of the thing. I overheard someone close to the front of the crowd begin to recite the words of some song concerning Erebor’s return to ascendancy to her neighbour as proof of some point, and soon that general theme was taken up and discussed in every which way. The Master’s expression turned pinched and disapproving before he gained control of himself and motioned the Captain of the Guard to establish some sort of order again. 

The Captain seized a great horn from where it had been hanging on a post nearby and blew upon it with gusto until the people of the town began to quieten down and pay attention once again. The Master smiled graciously. It did not reach his eyes. 

“If it is your intention to rid us of the dragon and come into your own once again, O King,” he said, bowing, “you are very much welcome. Come into the town and we shall have a feast in your honour tonight, and let us have no more of this nonsense about leaving your weapons here. You are our guests, and shall be treated as such.”

Such were his words, but he did not mean them. I believe it was his intent to keep a close eye on us at least, and to pacify his people with a show before swiftly booting us out in the morning. It was a more circumspect method than I might have expected from what little I had seen of leaders on our journey so far. Certainly I could not imagine an elf being so polite to ones he distrusted even if it was to his advantage in the short run. I surmised later that this was likely due to the Master’s experience negotiating trade between the various races that bordered his own lands; the elves to the west and the dwarves to the east, and the very occasional caravan from outposts to the south that belonged to the lands of Rhûn. He was merchant-born and elected rather than coming to his office by virtue of his lineage, and it showed. 

We followed him into Laketown, the crowd parting before us. Many were the looks of awe, amazement – avarice in some cases. For my part I took in the sights of this strangely built settlement. There were tall strong gates on the other side of the bridge, and spikes of wood jutting out from the walkways to either side to prevent anyone from trying to climb up from the water. There were many of these at the borders of the town, interspersed with true walls. On the other side of the gates we were led into a marketplace, although the stalls were not yet open for it was still early on in the day, and besides, both customers and traders were part of the throng that had come out to see us. In the centre of the open space was a wide circle of open water that opened up to the greater lake by a channel, and many quays led down to it so that goods could be unloaded. 

Our party was brought to a large house where we were told we were to stay for the night, and thereafter left alone, at least so long as we stayed inside, for many of the townspeople remained in the streets, eager for any glimpse of us they could get. The table at the centre of the main hall was quickly stocked with food; fresh meat and bread, plenty of fish both roasted and made into soups, green apples and pears in wooden bowls, even berry pies still warm from the oven. It was eagerly welcomed after so long eating dried, salted or otherwise preserved travel food. 

“All this _and_ a feast tonight,” Bofur said, piling his plate with cuts of gammon. “Uncommonly generous, these kind folks. If your ghostly friends _do_ manage to win the day for us, I’ll not mind them at all as neighbours.”

I agreed, in the general sense. Yet after all this misfortunes that had troubled us on our journey thus far, I couldn’t help but feel it was a little too good to be true. 

That night we shared separate rooms in small groups, with Thorin taking one by himself on account of his rank. I took the opportunity this presented and snuck through to join him. As I passed through the hall I saw the Nine seated around the table, empty dishes piled off to the side to make a space in front of them. They seemed to be playing some sort of game in hissed whispers, moving around roughly shaped pieces of stone, but I could not make out anything more. 

How wonderful it was though to slip under the fur covers of Thorn’s bed, feel his arms open to welcome me, to nestle into him and feel him press soft kisses to the back of my neck. This was what I had wanted every night since the forest, but had been unable to have. 

“I do not mean to push,” I said quietly once we had gotten comfortable. “But will you tell me why you don’t wish to let our relationship be known to the rest of the Company yet?” I did not doubt his feelings for me, for his responses to my overtures had been too heartfelt, and often I felt his eyes upon me.

“We do not generally speak much of our culture to those who are not dwarves,” he muttered at my back. “But I would have you with me, Bilbo Baggins, for the rest of my days, and so this must be done properly. Our kind love only once in our lives and for me that love is you. But I am an exile, a King without a Kingdom, one who has shorn his beard with the dishonour of loosing that which ought to have been mine to protect. It is not my place to think of softer matters until my responsibilities to my people have been dealt with.”

“Then I have even more incentive to help you kill the dragon,” I replied, smiling. I was happy to at least know the truth, even if I could not believe that Thorin was dishonourable by any standards. Of course I did not say anything to that effect – he had placed a great trust in me telling me these things that were not usually spoken to outsiders, and I would not sully that by criticising his culture, however obliquely. 

We soon sank into sleep after that, for the hour was late, the bed warm, and the both of us curled close to the one we loved.

\----

The overly-excellent treatment continued that evening. Laketown was not quite large enough to have much in the way of lords and other high-born folk, not even in the genteel, country way of the Shire, but it did have a kind of gentry composed of the richer merchants, those who owned land and farms supporting crops and livestock to the south and east, and those who seemed to be advisors to the Mayor, although they likely had other occupations that I did not hear about. 

The feast itself was of many courses over several hours. The Company were seated in places of honour, with Thorin taking the Master’s own seat, Fili and Kili to his right and left, and the rest of us nearby. The Nine had not come; they did not and could not eat, and it would look suspicious if they did not touch their food. Quite aside from the wonderful spread, which included some marvellous breads where the dough had been woven into intricate shapes, there was weak but well brewed beer, wine imported from the elves which none of us touched, and some strong spirit from Rhûn. I indulged my hobbit appetite, even though I still had no real need for food. That did not stop me enjoying it, thankfully. 

Halfway through the meal, after a very nice dish of fat fish smoked over a peat fire on a bed of fried cabbage, leeks and bacon, the Master rose to his feet as several men bearing various instruments came into the hall. “Our minstrels have requested that they be permitted to sing some of our songs that tell of the return of the King-Under-The-Mountain,” he said, and sat down again rather quickly. 

“Aye, my lords and ladies,” said the leader of the little group, bowing to us all. “From our grandfathers and our fathers has the promise of this day been carried down, a promise that you, King Thorin, have come to fulfil.” 

Thus with lute, pipe and harp they began to sing. As I listened to the words, a certain fear began to grown in my breast. Quite apart from our own hopes of regaining Erebor as the home of the dwarves, these descendents of Dale had put all of their own hopes upon us too. Even if we did not fail them, even if Smaug was slain and the mountain regained, I was far from sure that we could fulfil all that seemed to be expected of us. Looking at Thorin’s expression as the song transitioned into another, rather prematurely telling of the dragon falling to the earth in the throes of death and the rivers flowing with gold, I could see his heart was just as uneasy as my own. 

I suspected our stay in Longtown would not be a long one. At least the Master would appreciate that. 

\-----

We spent one more day in the town, making the rounds of the merchants and in many cases forcing our meagre stocks of money upon them, for they were inclined to give things up for free in anticipation of the reclaiming of the dragon-hoard, and none of us were much inclined to get into that sort of debt. Bad enough the assumptions of promises that already existed. 

The Master sent us north in a big, flat-bottomed boat with heavy-set men at the oars. He seemed rather relieved to see us go; not to mention pleased at being proven wrong about us. Horses and ponies were being sent around by another, more circuitous route, fresh ones to replace those elven steeds, which was rather better a deal for Laketown than for us. Still, whether we succeeded or not in our quest, one way or another we would not have much use for ponies after that. 

It was another fine day, for although there had been a shower of rain in the morning it had swept away the clouds and left the afternoon fresh and crisp. The leaves of the trees by the shoreline were starting to turn towards the colours of autumn. We passed a number of fishing boats along the way, nets draped over their sides, and with each one a cheer went up when they saw who we were. We bore the un-earned adulation with something between embarrassment and pleasure. Our minds were not on them, but on the mountain ahead. Durin’s Day, when the secret door would be revealed, was nearly upon us, and the weight of time pressed down. 

Three days travel saw us up the River Running and set to ground on the western bank, where our pack-animals were waiting for us. All our supplies were there and more, for there had been a certain amount of padding out by our well-wishers. Also there were a few ponies extra, allowing the baggage to be so apportioned as to allow us all to ride, and thereby to speed us along our way. I was thankful for this. With Smaug so close I was growing nervous, and rather than go slowly and put things off, I would rather it was over with as quickly as possible. 

The land here was quiet and empty, open and with few trees or shrubs. It was the aegis of the dragon, the Desolation, an aura of power that chased away the wildlife and put the earth into slumber so that things would not easily grow. It was not _all_ burnt by his fiery breath, although much of it was closer to the gates of Erebor and the ruins of Dale, for such scorching of the ground was not necessary for the creation of this bone-deep spell. That needed only his presence. 

_One day, your abode will be stamped just as firmly with your own presence,_ the Ring whispered to me. 

_I hope my presence will be rather more comfortable than this_ , I replied. We mounted up, the Nazgûl riding on our flanks four to each side, and Angmar next to me, and began the trek into the shadows of the mountain. The very air was still with a kind of sick anticipation, and I found myself several times holding my breath. Much as had been along the route from Mirkwood to Laketown, there were no true roads here, but the rolling hills were easy enough passage, and so long as we kept the mountain before us, we could not become lost. 

We left the river after a day, heading north-west towards a great spur of the mountain that had become visible, and which led up to where the hidden door was marked on Thorin’s map. We made good time, but the passage was tense, the hours long, and with the heaviness of Smaug’s presence upon us, no-one felt like talking. The Nine were the least affected, but they were not particularly loquacious at the best of times.

For all that none of us could doubt that Smaug yet lived, we saw no sign of him, or any other thing living, by the time we reached the foot of the mountain. Deeply he was slumbering, somewhere within those once-great halls, a lizard hibernation, coiled on gold, blanketed by jewels. Perhaps the Ring-Wraiths and I might indeed slip in quietly without disturbing him, but to kill him like that? No, nice an ideas as it was, I knew it could not possibly be that easy. 

_Fire-drake he is,_ the Ring told me. _Dragon of the old bloodlines, earth-fire made flesh. His scales shall be as stone, and though their bellies are soft as tanned leather his decades upon his hoard will have embedded it into him, made a part of himself. If you truly wish to slay him, you must hope that a naked place has been left somewhere upon him, or else no steel, however enchanted, will avail you._

_If I_ _wish to slay him?_ I asked. _What other course of action is there?_

_That remains to be seen. If he will talk, he can be reasoned with. The dragon-kin were once our allies, in ages past. Melkor gave them wings, and they were always dear to him, for their nature was all he loved of Arda. They were secondary only to the shadow-Maiar, those the elves call Balrogs._

_You want to reason with this dragon?_ I asked, astonished. _What do we have that he might possibly want?_

_Do you doubt you will and power, even after mastering me?_ The Ring whispered, half-mocking. _We shall soon find out what paths lie before us, and whatever the course, do not doubt that it is in my interests to protect you, for if I became part of a dragon-hoard I would never leave that place again._

This kind of self-interest I could certainly rely upon. I was not sure of the wisdom of stopping to speak with Smaug rather than using the element of surprise to spring an attack upon him, but the Ring had not led me ill since I bested it. I would at the very least try. 

\----

We made our camp that night upon the crest of one of the low hills that slowly stacked upwards towards the mountain’s spur. The ruins of some old watchtower were upon it, and Balin told me it had been called Ravenhill in better days. Thence we began to lay out our plans for the coming days, of the order in which we should search the clefts of the western slopes for the hidden door, and of how a scouting party ought to be sent to see the state of the main gate and how much remained of ruined Dale. I volunteered the Nazgûl and myself for that mission, since we could pass unseen by most eyes. 

We set out the next morning, the Wraiths divesting themselves of their enchanted robes as I slipped back into their ghostly world, watching things change around me. It had been a sunny day before but now the sky was overcast with looming clouds, the sides of the mountain guttered with fires that were not truly there, and the withered pines that clustered in places swayed as though in a fierce wind. Such was my impression of Smaug’s power upon this place. 

Dale, when we came upon it, was eternally aflame. Dull grey ruins smoked and kindled, ghost buildings burning down only to be resurrected and burnt again. A discordant version of the Nazgûl’s fear-song floated towards us, carried by the breeze, joined by the faint sounds of screams. This was a city of ghosts. I could feel it through the Ring, a thousand tiny specks of once-life, meagre spirits next to the Nine, little more than remnants of whatever they had been before. I had the impression then that I could compel them to me if I wished, that there was a certain similarity to the Wraiths that using I might force a kind of compulsion, but they were so weak there would be little point in it. 

_Already you begin to gain some of the instincts of witch-craft,_ the Ring said to me, sounding pleased. _Any with some speck of power might call upon the dead if they wish, but few can do so in such numbers as you might, if you so willed it._

I did not particularly will it, not even to practise the song of whatever spell was needed. It seemed a cruel thing, to rip those fragile shades away from whatever memory of life they had, even if such life was filled with pain. To make them aware of what they were would surely be worse. I wondered how bad the inner halls of Erebor would be, how many of Thorin’s kin were tied to Arda by the same unnatural method of their deaths. 

We went on a little further so that we might see the Gate. Climbing an outcropping of the southern spur the fallen glory of Erebor came into view. Vast statues guarded a broken and gaping gash impotently, their massive axes made into empty threat. The river poured out from the wound, falling in a silver spray, and dark smoke and steam came forth with languid power. I could not be entirely certain if they were present in the material world or not. 

“All of the halls must be filled up with dragon’s-breath,” Khamûl said to me. 

“A fortunate thing that there is another way inside,” Uvatha added. “This entrance will be guarded, one way or another.”

“You are aware, little master,” Ren said, with a certain embarrassed trepidation, although I did not appreciate him bringing up my height, “that we are not immune to dragon’s flame. He will kill us as easily as he will kill those dwarves you favour, if we are not careful.”

“I didn’t really expect any different,” I said, which was a lie. I suppose I had hoped that the Wraith’s immortality extended this far too, but apparently not. I thought I could still get away with speaking to Smaug, for I was fast, and a small target, but it might be better if I did not bring the Nazgûl along on that particular sojourn. 

Having seen all that there was to see of the sundered gate of Erebor, we headed back towards the western spur and our campsite.

\----

I reported back our findings to Thorin and watched his lips go thin and tight with a kind of futile anger. Of course he must have seen all that we had seen when he left Erebor, and it did not seem as though the passage of time had changed much. I wanted to offer some kind of comfort, but the expectations of Dwarvish culture forbade me. I could only be silent and sympathetic, and although not useless, it was not what either of us needed. 

It was too late in the day at that point to start the search, but the next morning we moved our camp higher up the valley between the two great outcroppings of the mountain, along what might once have been a goat-path that would have been eaten up by growing grass were it not for the pall of the dragon’s desolation. There was enough of the rough scrub for our steeds to eat though, and it seemed that Smaug had not ranged about so greatly on these slopes, for they were not so charred. 

Day upon day after that we split into parties of four or five to search every narrow valley, every wrinkle of stone upon the mountain’s face for signs that a door might be placed there. We looked for any traces of a path, a subtly cut route for the comers and goers to make their way safely down. It was not an easy task, for there were many places such that an entrance could feasibly be placed, and a great deal of territory to cover. Eventually, and more than half by accident, we found what we were looking for. 

It was Fili and Kili who came upon it. They had gone scouting back further down the valley where the western side was a broken up mess of boulders, fallen stone and scree slopes, and found by chance what appeared to be a series of rough steps winding upwards between the tangles of rock. Not quite ready to get our hopes up too quickly, they had followed the path up for some way before it cut across the head of the valley northwards via a narrow ledge, and ended in a wide bay that looked out to the west and Mirkwood in the distance. Of course they could not see the door, for it was as cunningly concealed as all secret doors naturally would be, but they were sure they had found the place we were searching for. Indeed, the smooth, sheer rock face inside did not look entirely natural.

The whole Company was both joyous and relieved to hear the news. Durin’s Day was the day after tomorrow, and we had all been getting rather nervous that we would miss it, and either have to foolishly risk the gate or come back after another year had passed. Quickly we broke camp and began the task of moving it up to that concealed nook, hidden by overhangs that explained why we had seen no sign of it before. 

Said task was not an easy one. The stairs were too steep for horses or ponies, so they had to be left down in the valley under guard of Bofur and Bombur. Then the ledge proved to be so thin and precarious that we had to go across it in single file unburdened by any packs that might put us off balance at a crucial moment. The fall was as bad as that of our dangerous passage through that pass in the Misty Mountains where we had come upon the battle of the stone giants, at least a hundred and fifty feet down onto sharp rocks. We lashed ourselves – save the Nazgûl, who proved to be as sure footed as any mountain goat – together with ropes, and made our slow way across in that fashion. The packs had to be sent back down to the first campsite and then pulled up on the end of several ropes tied together by means of strange but very effective dwarven knots. 

After that all we had to do was sit down and wait for the right moment. The rope system was robust enough that we could occasionally lower Kili, Fili or Ori down upon the end of it to give Bofur a bit of a rest from his guard-work. He came up that way a few times also, happy as a hobbit at a hog-roast, for he said it reminded him of working the mine-faces back in the Blue Mountains. Bombur refused to risk it, for good as the knots were, he did not trust his weight to them. 

Even though everyone knew about the moon runes and what they had said, that was not enough to stop some of the dwarves from trying to force the door open early. Dwalin tried battering it with his war-hammer, but he could not even raise shards of stone from the surface, and only served to blunt the weapon’s spikes and jar his wrists and elbows with the reverberations. Bofur gave it a try with his mattock to no more success. 

“No, do not try anymore,” Thorin said when he spotted Gloin eyeing it up, for he would probably have broken the blade of his axe upon it otherwise. “It is the work of the finest stonemasons Erebor ever produced, and it is clear no effort of ours will make any mark upon it.”

I was just as impatient as everyone else. Not that I had a real plan for killing Smaug if it came to that, but I hoped that when I went down to speak to him I might take the opportunity to look him over and see if there was, indeed, any spot on his once-soft belly that might be amenable to being pierced by a spear or lance or something along those lines. 

_Do you have any experience in slaying dragons?_ I asked the Ring, mostly to pass the time. 

_I do not. When they fought with the armies of Melkor and Mairon many ages ago, that was before my forging. Many perished on either side of that great conflict, and Mairon never spoke of it but with great bitterness._

_How did the dragons there come to die then?_ I asked, hoping to gain at least some clues as to how we might deal with Smaug. 

_This was the age when the great powers of Arda were young and strong. The elves had not yet been diminished, and their heroes and sorcerers had not yet passed into the West. Nor was Melkor intending at first to use the dragons in the battle that ended the War of Wrath, for he had not yet armoured their soft bellies with diamonds from the great seams of Thrangorodrim. So it was that a thousand thousand arrows found some mark, with powerful spells behind them, and many bit deep enough to kill. Even Ancalagon the Black, greatest dragon that ever was or will be, fell in the end to Manwë’s eagles and the witch-craft of Eärendil favoured of the Valar._

Unfortunately for me then, it seemed that to kill dragons you had to be some great elvish hero, and even then it were best you had ten others like you to lend a hand, or to have the help of creatures that might as well be called gods. That was not a description that, even with some generosity, would quite stretch to cover the Ring. We would have to be lucky in the extreme for strength of arms to win the day. Talking was starting to seem like a better and better idea. 

_And unlike the Nine, you have no need to fear his flame,_ the Ring told me. _No fire can touch me, and I will show you how to pull that same protection over you._

_You couldn’t have mentioned this a bit earlier?_ I said, but did feel rather better. 

The day started to darken as evening fell. The sun lowered itself slowly towards the distant horizon, turning the far off eaves of Mirkwood golden. In the blue sky high above was the first crescent sliver of the new moon. Half of the Company were staring at the rock wall, half out at the light of sun and moon, waiting. The Nazgûl were disinterested. 

Suddenly there was a loud knocking noise. I started and looked round to find the source. A thrush was perched upon a stone by the door-wall, although I had not seen it fly in. It had grasped a fat snail in its beak and was rapping it sharply upon the rock. I sprung to my feet, and held my breath in anticipation along with the others as they saw what I was looking at. 

The sun sank lower, lower, and I was frantically counting days in my head in case we had missed one in the confusion of our journey and it would not be until the next day or the next that we would see the keyhole. But no; at last a ray of light shone out, falling upon the stone. With a loud crack a sliver of rock fell away, revealing a hole about three feet above the ground. Quickly Thorin rummaged for the key in his pockets. Pulling it out he strode over and thrust it into the revealed lock, twisting hard. There was a grinding noise like the movement of some heavy and long disused mechanism, and lines began to form upon the sheer rock face, marking out the boundaries of a squat door. 

“Come help me with this,” Thorin cried, and then everyone was gathered around him and were pushing hard upon the door until it began slowly to move inwards, opening up with a great rush of hot air and the release of a foreign reek like rotten eggs, burnt hair and musk. I coughed and covered my nose against the stink of the dragon. Inside was nothing but darkness, deep darkness leading down into the depths of the mountain.

Even had I wanted to bring the Nazgûl with me when I ventured in this way, I could not. The ceiling was not high enough for them to pass unless they went half bent or on hands and knees, neither of which their pride would allow. This was a journey I would have to take on my own. Ahead, Smaug waited, asleep or awake I knew not. 

“Alright,” I said, “I had better make a start of it.”

\----

Here's a little illustration from me to show how I imagine Bilbo will look at the end of this story.  
[](http://s70.beta.photobucket.com/user/Gestalt1/media/darklordbilbocopy_zps2e3947a4.jpg.html)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo plays with a volcano, chats to a dragon, and fixes a bit of a problem.

The tunnel was dark and wet and hot like a gaping throat. Billows of warm air came gusting out of the opening, caressing my face, filling my nostrils with heat and the scents of dragon. I steeled myself, trying to think of what I might say to the great creature that lurked within, what words I might use to convince him. It seemed an impossible task. How could I bargain away gold-lust, territory, a lair, and in return for what? 

I did not think this could possibly turn out well, but I was committed to at least making the attempt. I looked back, at Thorin and the others waiting with a nervous sort of suspense, then turned and ventured forth. As the darkness enveloped me I slipped back through to the wraith-world, like passing beneath a waterfall, so that the contours of the rock appeared around me outlined in ghostly smoke. 

Even besides the damp heat that filled the air and made my clothes stick to my skin, there was the sense of another heat lurking below the surface, a greater heat, something terrible and ferocious and elemental, something so white-hot that the touch of my strange other senses shied away from it. It echoed up through the length of the passage, a slow flood of death and, paradoxically, life. It carried within it the genesis of gems, of gold and silver and other metals, of rock transmuted and made anew. It was the forerunner of the forge, almost alive, just shy of truly aware. It sang of creation and destruction. I was not quite touching it, so out of sync with time, but it was not until I realised that I had stopped walking and was merely standing still, swaying and letting the feelings of it pass over me that I became aware of quite how caught up in those sensations I had been. 

_What is that?_ I asked the Ring. 

I felt it sigh, pleased and more than pleased. Bathing in that ecstasy I had almost fallen into. _It is the life-blood of Arda, the earth-fire, the fuel that once burned in Aulë’s forges, that Melkor loved and took to his use, that Mairon used to make me. Once it ran over the lands in the days when this world was young and only just sung into existence, before it was chained beneath the earth. It has a power and a beauty greater than anything else I have seen in the thousands of years of my existence._

 _It is... amazing._ I could hardly deny that. It was all around me, welling up from deeper under the mountain below, down in depths where I could not follow, could barely conceive of. And not so far away, the slumbering dragon wrapped it around himself like a blanket, tasting of it, but not warping it to his presence as he had the surrounding lands. 

_It is the fire that flowed in my Mairon’s veins; for once he learned his craft at Aulë’s feet – the only Vala he never spoke ill of, save Melkor of course. It flows through me also – it is my source, inexhaustible, bounded only by the Will of my Master._

I could not even begin to conceive of wielding the kind of power that still moved all around me. And this, I somehow understood, was merely the echo, the remnants, of what once flowed through this and other places within the vast bulk of the Lonely Mountain. If it was the source of the Ring’s power, it was refined into something more palatable as it passed through it.

_So... you mentioned some protection you could teach me against dragon-fire?_

The Ring purred. It seemed to be basking in the tumultuous heat-ghost. _This rock-flame is the secret_ , it told me. _It burns greater than any drake’s belly-furnace can. You must take it into yourself, become a part of it, so that any heat turned against you becomes but a part of your own heat. Dragon-fire is terrible, and so you must become more terrible still._

I took a deep breath, and then another. I admit I was daunted, even after all I had seen so far, even after all I had done. The Ring had been right about one thing – I was not Mairon, this much vaunted fire-spirit, and this sort of thing did not come naturally to me. Still though, I had proved capable of everything the Ring had asked of me yet, and I would rise to this challenge as I had all the others. 

It was best, I decided, if I practised making this heat-shield now, rather than trying it for the first time under rather more pressing circumstances. I inched mental fingers out towards the white-hot power that coursed around me, just out of sync with both material and ghost worlds I inhabited. I would take just a little, just a very little to begin with. 

As soon as I made contact it jumped into me, through me, a scorching river that intended to fill me up and burn out everything I was. I could hear, as though very far away, the Ring shouting at me in anger. To say it hurt could not in any way express the exquisite agony that ripped through every muscle, every bone. I felt the not-quite-there mind, the wild energy, pressing against my own mind and will, a battle every bit as crucial and dangerous as the one I had waged against the Ring. 

I grit my teeth together. I somehow gathered enough of myself to fight back. My will was strong, otherwise I would never have mastered the Ring, and I was not about to lose against something that did not even have a consciousness, no matter how powerful. 

Slowly, slowly, I came back to myself. My thoughts cleared, the pain ebbed. 

The power of the earth-blood was flowing through me, like fire in my veins. It wound about me like a river of flame, looping from the stone into me and back in a never-ending chain. It was bucking like a wild horse, barely constrained, constantly at war with the will that was only just keeping it in check. 

_Yes! Yes!_ The Ring exulted. _This is power, this is glory, this is all that you and I were ever meant to be!_ It laughed, long and loud, and I couldn’t deny I would have done the same if it wasn’t for the presence of the dragon that still sat heavily in the back of my head. 

_I’m not sure I can hold this for very long,_ I said instead. _Or that I can repeat the process._

 _It will be harder to forge the connection away from the mountain,_ the Ring said. _You would have to reach far deeper for it. I admit, here was not the safest place for a beginner in this art, but I have no experience of teaching this skill._ It was an apology, of sorts. 

_Alright_ , I said, still more than half occupied with keeping my balance within the torrent. It was not even that it was coming through me at speed; indeed the opposite. It was slow, rolling like treacle, but the force behind it was immense, and at any moment I knew it might sweep me off my feet. _Let’s go speak to this dragon._

\----

At last the tunnel opened out into the expanse of a great hall. Before me a slender staircase led downwards, bolstered by great pillars inlaid with slabs of marble and gold, strewn in places with little piles of coin and other scattered finery. Deep below something was glowing in the dark, light in both worlds. It shone off treasure. A great pile of it, a pool, a sea. It covered the floor to some depth, heaped up in drifts, stacked together without order, uncounted and uncountable. The riches of Erebor, the wealth of her deep mines. I could not have imagined it, and even as it was I could not entirely believe the evidence of my own eyes. 

But the treasure was not all there was down in the deeps of that massive hall. There was the source of the glow. Smaug the dragon, the very sounds of his breathing rumbling deep around the walls, drifting up to me, his nostrils red with some fiery light, witch-fire gleaming off his scales in the spirit-realm. He was lying half-submerged beneath his hoard, coins like sand poured over the contours of his monstrous skull, his wings lying like the fallen cloth of many tents stitched together and laid out to conceal his stolen gold. He was strangely coloured, seeming at some times dark blue or green until a shudder of movement and perhaps a half-waking would come upon him, whence he flushed red-gold, like those rare sea-creatures called lobsters that sometimes were imported for the Thain’s table in the Shire when put to the boil. 

I crept down towards the vastness of the treasure. It seemed amazing that my attention was more taken up by the hoard than by its current guardian. Yet in all my wildest imaginings I could not have grasped the scope of it, whereas I had some idea about the vastness of dragons. With the fire of the mountain’s heart-blood sludging through me, languid and rich and fierce, I felt somewhat dragonish myself, and I could not help myself from looking around me with wonder and lust, my hungry eyes taking in the gold, the jewels, the delicately crafted necklaces, ornaments, the armour hanging upon the nearest wall in serried ranks with swords and axes and spears and many other things by them. Steel and silver – or something that shone like it – inlaid with stones and metals and intricate patterns in the dwarvish styles... I sighed to see it. 

I was too caught up in admiring the finery. I was not as wary as I ought to have been. As I stooped to examine a thick woven band worked from many hundreds of tiny gold wires, I missed the slow opening of a great, lizard eye, missed the deep drawing in of air through nostrils finely attuned to scent. 

“Well thief!” Smaug said, a silken rumble that made me freeze in place. “Who is it that comes into my halls smelling of something new and tasting of the mountain? Who is this contradiction that scarce moves the air, yet feels like dragon-friends of old? There is ancient craft in the air, silent one.”

“No thief am I, O Smaug the Great and Terrible,” I replied, getting to my feet carefully, so as to avoid the coins beneath me sliding and giving my position away. “But one come to parlay with you, Master of the Mountain.” Flattery seemed like a wise place to start with a creature like a dragon. 

Indeed, Smaug made a pleased sound, a chuckling rumble in the back of his cavernous throat. “Fine words for one who walks unseen. ‘Tis a dishonest creature that does not show its face or form. Will you not tell me who you are, since after all you seem to know _my_ name?”

“I am he who flies through the air and tunnels beneath the earth, he who passes over hill and under hill, who goes seen or unseen as he wishes.” I am not sure if it was myself or the Ring that prompted me to reply in this manner. I did not find out until later that dragons tend to be fond of riddles, but either way, I piqued his interest.

“Well that last is certainly true,” he replied, raising his head further up on a long sinuous neck, coins falling from him like rain. His skin had utterly flushed to red at this point with his waking. “But it is not the usual form of a name, as we both know.”

“I am the seeker in the dark, elf-slayer, ork-killer, commander of those who have cheated death. I have the friendship of bears and eagles and wargs. I bring down kings and raise them up.”

I could see that this had caused the dragon some consternation. He cocked his head to one side and peered down at where he thought my voice had come from. His claws, long as a man was tall, twitched against the piles of gold. I began to regret boasting quite so much. 

“Is it...” Smaug muttered, though in his voice it carried all the same. “Can he have found it again?” He leant his head down to look at vaguely where I was standing. I held my breath. “I was barely wet out of the egg when the One was lost. I would believe you have it, whoever you are. I am less convinced that you are he, that you are Mairon, Lieutenant of Melkor, Annatar, Gorthaur, and whatever other names you have managed to accrue in the past age.”

“I never claimed to be that being,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice from shaking. The earth-blood’s sludgy heat twisted within me, putting me off balance. It might make me proof against Smaug’s breath, but it would do no good at all against his teeth. He was large enough to swallow me up whole without chewing. 

“No,” the dragon said, drawing air through his nostrils, flickering his tongue out, scenting the air in both ways. His eyes slitted half closed. “Not fire, not just fire. You taste of the earth too, little shade, of growing things. And... of dwarf.” He growled, a terrible rumble that reverberated through the cavernous barrel of his chest and made coins jump and tremble. “Do you still claim not to be a thief?”

“I have taken nothing from you yet, Smaug O Greatest of Calamities!” I said, going quickly back to compliments in an effort to cool his growing rage. “Nor will I unless all talks between us cease. You know what I carry! I am Ringbearer, Master of the One. I admit I have come here at the behest of Thorin Oakenshield, whose grandfather once ruled these halls, but I would come to an accord with you over the matter!”

“You do not know so very much as you claim if you expect me to give up my home to dwarves,” Smaug replied, half-hissing. He drew his curls closer about his treasure, hunched low and protective, long spikes along the length of his spine raised up like the hackles of a dog. 

“Maybe I don’t,” I replied. “Maybe I don’t know enough about dragons. But even if you will never return this gold, what of the rest of Erebor? Have you ever even stepped foot outside of the treasury? This was a dwarvish kingdom once, it was _their_ home before you stole it!”

“Aulë’s children are too like us,” Smaug said, bearing his fangs. “They have the gold-lust. I do not think they know you bargain away this hoard to placate me, and I do not think they would allow it if they did. Oh, I care nothing for deep halls, for carven stone. Those who were born from the rock have a right to it, and if they want to run around out there I care not. But dragon-kind were birthed from the hot blood of Arda, and all else that comes from it – gold, gems, precious metals – _that_ ought rightfully be ours.”

I took me a while to think of any reply to that. I somehow doubted that if our Company were to set up shop in the rest of Erebor, Smaug would simply lay idle. Even if he had meant the letter of his words, I suspected he would not trust the dwarves not to try and steal from his hoard, and he was right that I knew Thorin would not be pleased if the dragon remained where he was. After all the bloodshed, was I being foolish to think that I could forge some kind of peace here? Would it all come down to death, on both sides?

“Are the seams here exhausted?” I asked. 

Smaug’s expression at that might have been confusion – it was hard to tell on reptilian features. “They are still rich with the glories of the earth,” he replied. “And they too would be mine, save that I cannot get to them in this form.”

I was beginning to have some vague glimmer of an idea. Mind you, in a situation like this, I doubted any agreement would make either side entirely happy, but maybe I could find some way of enforcing it. As it was, seeing the dragon in the flesh, I was less sanguine than ever that we had any hope of killing him, not without most of us dying in the attempt. The Ring was right; a diplomatic solution would be better, if I could get two ultimately very stubborn parties to agree. 

“For the moment then I shall withdraw,” I said, beginning to edge away. “I will consider what you have told me, O Tremendous One.”

“Hmmm,” the dragon said, turning his gaze between the various ways in and out of the hall. So he did not know I had come down the stair, and I intended to keep it that way. 

I was careful not to disturb any of the piles of gold as I made my way back to the tunnel. As I slowly ascended, and the heat of the air grew less, I gradually began to let go off my hold on the mountain’s power. I eased away, and finally I was separate from it again. It had been a close thing at times, and I was not overly eager to take it into me again, although I knew I would have to when I came down here again. I would at least know to be more careful next time. 

At last I emerged into the cool autumn night, slipping back through into the material world at the same time. A fire was burning upon the doorstep, the Company arranged around it, Thorin sitting keeping watch, the others sleeping. The Nine stood upon the edge of the cliff, looking out. Thorin looked up when I let out a sigh. 

“You have returned safely to us,” he said, smiling in obvious relief. He was playing with the Ring of Durin upon his finger; a nervous-seeming tic I had not noticed of him before. “And the dragon? The treasure?”

“Better that it waits for morning, so that I can tell you all at once,” I said. A bone-deep tiredness was settling over me, and I felt as though I was barely keeping my eyes open. 

“But you saw it?” Thorin asked. “Thrór’s golden hall, the riches of Erebor?” There was a strange gleam in his eyes, reflecting like coins in the light of the fire, that I did not entirely like.

“Yes, I saw it, and it was amazing,” I told him. “But it was a rather trying experience, and I would rather like to collapse into sleep before doing anything else.”

“Of course,” he said. He watched me as I shook out my bedroll, as I curled up beneath my blanket. I was aware of his eyes upon me as I fell swiftly into sleep, and despite all the problems I was sure the next day would bring, it was comforting to know that he was there.

\----

I woke up early the next morning with the rising of the sun, although in our west-facing crevice we were still bathed in shadow. The earth-fire song of the mountain was whispering faintly in my ears, coming up out of the open mouth of the tunnel. I got up and went to exchange a few quiet words with Angmar and the others. They did not seem to sleep, or at least I had never caught them at it. I suspected they had been standing where they were all night. 

“The Ring advises me I should make a bargain with the dragon,” I said, as they turned to look at me. “I spoke to him last night, but the thing is that we don’t really have anything he wants at the moment.”

“The dragons were once allies, before any of us were born,” Hoarmurath said. “Perhaps you can force him to your will with the Ring?”

“No,” Ji Indur replied, before I could say anything. “Dragons are not susceptible in that way. It would not work, and it would only rouse his ire.”

“I’m just as worried about what the dwarves might say,” I confided. “But surely if it’s the only way... From what they’ve said in the past, I’ve always been given the impression that this was more about reclaiming Erebor itself than about the gold, but I won’t know for sure until I’ve talked to them.”

“But you do have a plan,” Angmar said, seeing something about my manner that tipped him off. 

I nodded. I explained my idea, for which I received sceptical looks. Still, I thought, it was worth putting to both parties. I could always try and come up with something else if this didn’t work out.

\----

As the dwarves woke up I was greeted with happy cheers when they saw that I had come up out of that darkness alive. “Seems like our burglar is proving his worth again,” Bofur said, coming over to slap me on the back. 

“Did you bring anything back?” Kili asked me, excited. 

“I’m afraid not,” I replied. “Smaug was awake, you see, and it wouldn’t have been safe.”

“The dragon is awake!” This caused much muttering amongst the Company. Perhaps they’d been hoping we could sneak down and kill him in his sleep. It certainly would have made things simpler. 

“Quiet all of you,” Thorin said, coming up to the group that was clustered around me. They parted for him like waves lapping around a rock. “We knew this was not going to be an easy quest when we set out upon it. We shall not falter now, not when we are so close.” He turned to look at me with expectant eyes. I _had_ promised to tell of what I’d seen in the morning.

I described my trip down into the mountain, telling of the heaps and mounds of gold and finery piled within the treasure hall, of the little stair leading down, of the dragon in all his terrible glory that waited at the bottom. I told of our discourse, the words and riddles exchanged, although I hung back a little in mentioning the possibility of an accord. I saw the glow that lit Thorin’s eyes when I detailed the vastness of the hoard, of all the things that it comprised, and my heart sank. Something was wrong here; the gold had always meant something to him, as it would any dwarf, but there had never been this lust for it before. Was it the proximity of the dragon? Something of Thrór’s disease making itself manifest? 

Whatever the cause, I knew nothing good could come of it, and that even the best diplomacy would be as nothing if Thorin held onto the treasure with all the fervour of its current guardian. 

“I can hardly believe you talked to a dragon,” Fili said, awed. His brother had the same excited, breathless look. 

“More importantly lad, did you see any weak spots?” Balin asked. 

“I’m afraid not,” I confessed. “But I intend to go back down there, and maybe I’ll see something next time. He kept low down on top of the hoard, so I never got a good look at his underbelly. Still, there may be another solution, even if it’s a long shot.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, frowning. 

“The Ring suggested diplomacy,” I replied. “Coming to some kind of agreement. It might be a safer bet than trying to kill him.”

“Dragons cannot be trusted,” Thorin said, anger making his voice even gruffer than it normally was. “And I will never forget those of my people the beast killed when he attacked us. Nor will I give up my grandfather’s treasure to some greedy thief! That hoard belongs to the line of Durin, and no others!”

It was much as I had thought. And I could hardly argue with the fact that Smaug had caused much death and pain. It might have been well outside the lengths of memory I was used to dealing with, but it was not so long ago for dwarves, and for the dragon, surely it had barely even happened! I could only justify it to myself by thinking of the greater death that might be caused by our attempt at slaying him. I could perhaps control the earth-blood enough to protect one or two others, but the rest would have no shield against his fire, and there was still his teeth, his claws, his sheer deadly size to consider. What if we could not kill him before he killed us? It could hardly escape his notice that we must have had help to come this far, and there was only one place that aid could have come from. In our attack we might condemn Laketown to the same fiery death as their forebears in Dale. I remembered those ever-burning shades, and shivered. 

Even if it wasn’t entirely right, even if it wasn’t entirely fair, making peace with the dragon seemed to me to be the better option. Perhaps it was the faint affection I knew the Ring felt for the drake-kind that was influencing me. Perhaps it was the certain veneer of logic to Smaug’s claim upon the bounties of the earth – I had felt the history of the mountain in the flow of its ancient life-blood and knew at least part of his tale to be true. Either way, it would go no further whilst Thorin was in the grip of this strange gold-fever. 

“I will go down again and look for a way to kill the dragon,” I said; a half-empty promise. It was worth doing, in preparation for the worst, but it was not all of my plan. “But not just yet. Why, I haven’t even had my breakfast yet!”

“And I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer,” Bofur said. “Bombur’s making it down below, and it’ll have to be pulled up to us.”

“Then he’d best not take too long,” I said, laughing to cover my uneasiness. I did not know quite how to approach curing Thorin of whatever had come upon him, but at least I had a few resources to call upon. Surely between the Ring and the Nine we would come upon the answer. 

There was not much room for privacy upon the little shelf of rock, but I went over to sit by the entrance to the tunnel – unconsciously avoided by the rest of the Company – to think and commune with the Ring. Sitting down on a patch of stone unavoidably damp with morning dew, I turned my attention inwards.

_This gold-lust of Thorin’s – what do you know of it?_

The Ring was silent for a good long while, but I could tell from the connection between us that it was thinking rather than ignoring me. The latter option would not have been very good for its health. _I forget at times that you are no master of ring-lore_ , it said at last. _I assumed you knew when you accepted the Ring of Durin from Angmar._

 _What do you mean?_ I asked, although suspicion was growing in my mind just who I had to blame for this. 

_The Seven were made to give Mairon control over the Lords of the Dwarven Clans, the Ring explained. Much as the Nine for the Nazgûl. But when Aulë forged dwarven-kind, he made them for a world that had already known Melkor’s touch. He made them to resist powers like mine, much as you seem to be made, although I think some word of it would have gotten out in all these years if you halflings were another of Aulë’s creations. All that the Seven did was to increase the gold-lust the dwarves already possessed._

_And Angmar knew I would give it to Thorin when he gave it to me,_ I said, starting to grow angry. _I did not question it, because I thought he could not do anything to harm me or my plans. But all he did was give me a lie of omission, and if I had bothered to ask you at the time, I would have avoided this._

 _It can be fixed, since you have me,_ the Ring said soothingly. _But what will you do to Angmar?_ There was a wicked curiosity to it, a certain relish. Perhaps it wanted to see the kind of pain I had subjected it to dealt out to someone else. Perhaps it was simply that it enjoyed the thought of seeing others suffer. I knew by now that that was a part of its nature, just one more piece of Mairon put into it at its forging. I couldn’t begrudge it how it was made, but if I occasionally had – and still have – to do unpleasant things to people, at least I don’t have to particularly enjoy it. I just don’t shy away from it. 

_He_ will _have to be punished,_ I replied. _But I think it is more important that we deal with Smaug first. How do I break Thorin out of his desire for the hoard?_

 _You should already be aware of the presence of the other Rings of Power,_ the Ring said. Indeed, now that I was actively seeking them out, I perceived other tendrils of connection drifting away into the æther of the wraith-world. Nine thicker ropes led to the Nazgûl standing their guard upon the lip of the ledge. One more slender rope ran towards Thorin and Durin’s Ring upon his hand. Two other similar threads disappeared off to the south, and there were four odd, ragged places where it seemed that connections had been shorn off. There was also the ghost of a link, also heading off south, which seemed very insubstantial, almost new. I ignored it for now, but I thought I might come back to it later. It intrigued me. 

_I see it_ , I said. I felt cautiously along the length of the binding, feeling for the taste of the magic at the end of it. Durin’s Ring had a stubbornness about it, which wasn’t surprising. It still had singing within it the roaring of the horns of war, but also the hammer at the forge, the rumble of voices singing in Khuzdul. Through it I felt Thorin’s mind, skimming no deeper than the surface. He felt noble, royal, holding the bitterness of old grief, and fear for the Company, for his people. I did not go looking for evidence of his feelings for me. It would have felt too invasive, dishonest. 

Tainting everything though was a tang of sour metal, a vague dragonish scent, evidence of the gold-lust. I could see how it echoed in his head, reverberating against his natural dwarvish love of fine things and so looping back upon itself, growing stronger each time. I could see how, undisturbed, it would eventually take him over, just as it must have done his grandfather. 

_What do I do?_ I asked the Ring. 

_The Seven are ours to command,_ came the reply. _It does what it does because thus Mairon instructed it. It has bonded with him, with the bloodline it was made for, so the only way to change him is to change it._

Durin’s Ring had no mind to speak to, but I knew enough at this point to recognise the warp and weft of the spells that were laid into it. I studied them, saw how they linked in to the connection with the Ring, how with subtle tugs and pulls they might be moulded into new configurations. I poked and prodded at it, experimenting a little. Yes, I thought I had worked out which part of the witch-craft prompted the treasure-fever. I nudged it aside and away, doubling it back upon itself like creasing paper. It folded away, made dormant. 

_Well done,_ the Ring told me. 

I could only hope that the effect the ring had been having upon Thorin would dissipate quickly enough that we could get on with the diplomatic solution. I did not want to try Smaug’s patience, and it would not be very long before I would be venturing down his way again. 

Still, it was a good morning’s work. I got up and went to find breakfast feeling rather lighter in heart than I had before. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay - my muse has been a bit un-cooperative lately. I hope you enjoy this next chapter anyway.

After filling my stomach with smoked bacon and trail-bread liberally spread with salted butter, it was time to descend once more into the depths of the mountain and face the dragon for the second time. It was too early to tell whether my actions had managed to have any effect upon Thorin’s artificial gold-lust. I would simply have to proceed with my plan without his approval, but I had faith that he would see my reasoning – that it was our best option at the moment. As for Angmar, I had not yet made up my mind what I wanted to do about his subtle treachery. I did not know quite enough about him to decide on a suitable punishment. One advantage at least of this sojourn down the tunnel was the time it would give me to think. To think, and plan, and try and make the world fit into a mould of fate that would work out best for all of us.

I had not gone far along the passage before I felt again the upswell of earth-fire rising up around me, throbbing beneath my feet. Wary and keeping in mind the overwhelming power of it, the force that could not be fought and could barely be controlled by gentle, subtle persuasion, I reached out for it once more. I had been careful enough the first time, and I was more careful now. I did not so much call it up as sink down to meet it, like immersing myself in a warm bath – although the heat of this bath defied any description or comparison I could think to make. 

Yet I could not stop my mind grasping for metaphors, trying to make sense of this primal force. Like a blanket, like baking, half-liquid mud clinging under my skin, I took the power of the earth-fire into me. I held myself back from it as much as I could, aware of the presence of the Ring purring on my finger, a link that allowed me to centre myself. It made a little more sense then, using it as a buffer against the mountain’s memory of its blood. It knew this power intimately, had been born in it, drew from it as easily as a dragon breathing its fire. It understood, and shared that understanding with me. 

I refocused on the task I had come here to do. Parlay with the dragon, with Smaug the Terrible. 

I tried not to let any fear into me as I walked the passageway to the treasury, slipping as I did so back into invisibility. I couldn’t afford to doubt what I was doing, or I would lose confidence and surely at the worst possible moment. Like any predator – and the Shire had enough of the ordinary kind that I felt right in thinking it – any sign or show of weakness would only tantalise the dragon’s instincts, turn me from stranger and unknown quantity into prey. Since I had no intention of being eaten, I couldn’t risk making that mistake. 

Smaug was awake and alert when I began to silently descend the steps towards him. His head turned vaguely towards me, but by the scanning of his eyes over the maze of pillars and stepped platforms, I did not think he knew quite where I had appeared from. I was still wary enough to want to keep it that way.

“So, silent and cloaked one, you have come again,” the dragon said, his voice ringing and rolling like the chimes of a bell, filling up the vast hall. “You are either very bold, or very foolish.”

“Or I know enough about dragons to know to keep my word,” I replied, once I had reached the foot of the stairs and moved away a little to disguise my route. “I said I would speak with you again, and so here I am.”

“And do you have more riddles for me today? Perhaps the riddle of how Dwarf and Dragon may live side by side in peace?” He huffed out a short burst of rumbling laughter, dark smoke coming with it. 

“I hope I can answer that riddle for you, Great Smaug,” I said. “But first I would pose to you another. What use to you is gold you can never touch, or jewels you can never see?”

“There is much of both in the bones of Arda and in the houses of Men, Elves and Dwarves,” Smaug replied. “I have taken what I can of that which is my right, and I would take more if the getting of it would not leave this trove unguarded.”

“It is the bones of this mountain of which I wish to speak,” I said. “Anyone would only have to look at the hopes of the Lake-men to see that the mines here must be far from depleted, even for all the treasure that I can see in this hall. It is beyond the touch or appreciation of any creature. Can you truly tell me that pleases you?”

“Better in the ground than leaving the mountain altogether, to go I know not where,” Smaug told me. “Though it is true enough it were better where I could see it. In days of old, so I am told, the orks, the goblins, the multitudes that followed Melkor’s banner all dug it for us, we favoured allies of that spirit of shadow who loved the fire. Do you suggest your dwarves would take up that task? Their pride would not allow it – you should know better.”

“That isn’t entirely what I am suggesting,” I replied. “Nor, I suppose, can I do _more_ than suggest it just yet, for I will talk to Thorin only when there is at least some bare shadow of an agreement to present to him. But I would not want to become your enemy, O Fierce and Mighty Smaug.”

“No, you would not,” the dragon said, lowering his head towards me with the hint of fangs showing. “You amuse me, so I listen, but you do not bargain from strength. You have not the armies of Mairon or his might, little thief and imitation. Yet I have not spoken with another in many a long year, so speak on, youngling mortal.”

“And are you satisfied with your loneliness?” I asked, with more pique than perhaps was wise. 

I was lucky – he seemed to find this amusing, rather than an insult and thus an excuse to eat me. “In two thousand years, I have become used to the inevitability,” Smaug said, curling back onto his hoard, no longer so threatening. “My kind was never numerous, and many have left these lands for others far stranger and further away than I suspect you can imagine. I have but cold-drakes for company now, curled in their caves far away north and east. I came south for this hoard when none of them were willing to risk the attempt. I cannot truly say I miss their company overmuch, although I shall have to visit them at least once in the next century or so.”

“Well wouldn’t you appreciate having more people around to talk to?” I asked. 

“Dwarves you mean,” Smaug said, chuckling. “Unless they are all as interestingly bold as you, I doubt it. I am satisfied enough with my slumber and my memories.”

I am a forthright fellow by nature, and I had had enough of pussy-footing around what I wanted to say. It was not in the nature of Hobbits to make a deal out of haggling and bartering, and what was diplomacy but that on the scale of nations and powers? I decided to come and out and state my plan plainly. “My idea was this,” I said, “that the dwarves – and their kin from Ered Luin, also formerly of Erebor – would return to their lives here, and reopen the mines as well, and tithe you a certain amount yet to be agreed upon for your kindness and forbearance in letting them do so.”

I still do not know quite what it was that made this the last plate that breaks the table, unless it was the sheer perceived temerity of it. Smaug’s eyes narrowed, his wings mantled and billowed up stiffly, his lips drew back over his massive teeth and he reared up half-way onto his haunches. 

“Do you think to turn my gaze away from your thievery with petty bribes?” he said in a voice like a great wind. Smoke billowed around his jaws, the bright light of flames rippling at the back of his throat. I reached out in alarm for the molten heat still running beneath my skin, letting it well up, and through, and over. “You speak thus to me? I am Smaug of the Line of Fire! My armour is as ten-fold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the blows of my tail are as the strikes of lightning! My wings are a hurricane and my breath is death itself!”

Smaug’s mouth stretched wide, a gaping maw, and from it spewed fire in a sticky torrent like a waterfall. It crashed down upon me, stealing my breath away in a wash of boiling air. Yet it did not hurt me. The dragon’s power was in his weapon, and that power resonated with the sorcerous song that underpinned the earth-blood, falling into a kind of harmony that let the two mingle and combine, one with the other and myself along with all of it. The Ring crowed with joy and exhilaration. 

The fire stopped eventually as Smaug perceived that it was not burning me up as he had wished. I was left with my form outlined in flames, dripping from me in little spits to land and sizzle against the wash of melting gold that now churned about my feet. I glared up at the enraged dragon, shaking the remnants of his conflagration from me as I would water after a heavy rain. 

I was more angry than frightened at his sudden attack, but still he was armed with more than his blazing breath. He bared his vicious teeth at me, seeing now where I was, and his neck curved backwards as though to make some serpentine strike towards me. I cast about me in alarm, realising just what serious trouble I was in. My gaze tracked over the jewel-encrusted mass of his belly. Then I saw it. A small bare patch upon the deep barrel of his chest just over his heart. 

The Ring was crying out to me, offering its power freely. It had no desire to swim in a dragon’s belly for however long it took to be passed out again, even if the fires therein could not hurt it. Looking about for a weapon I came upon a sturdy spear, needle-tipped with steel. Spells I wound about it in a single drawn-out moment, a hurried and abbreviated strain of song, and then with witch-craft strength I sent it whirring up through the air to sit, poised and just penetrating, in the hollow of that single vulnerable spot. 

Smaug froze. He looked down. Slowly he let his mouth close, his poised neck relax, his wings sink back down. The spear shuddered against his tender hide, the song that held it there a drawn-out soprano note that trembled with expectation of the melody to come. 

“So are you done?” I asked with anger. “Are you prepared to be reasonable now?”

I was not expecting the dragon to laugh. It was a quiet rumble that rose up through his chest and grew to fill the hoard-hall. He regarded me with a look that seemed oddly fond. 

“I have not been thus challenged in many centuries,” he said, half-purring. “I find I like it. Perhaps you have something of the mountain’s blood within you after all, rather than merely wearing it as a mask. Very well. I shall speak with the dwarves of this treaty of yours, and we shall see what the end result shall be. I have patience and time enough for it.” 

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a flood of relief. “I appreciate your co-operation, I really do. I would hate for this to come to bloodshed.”

Again the dragon laughed. “Would you so?” he asked. “Force is a tool to be wielded to enact will, and by your boasting riddle-names you have made use of it in the past. You cannot deny this, nor make the world other than it is.”

I hesitated. “I do not believe,” I said slowly, “that violence, or making war, is always as necessary as you seem to think. Perhaps it is so for great kingdoms, but where I come from it is a rare and terrible thing. Although I have to admit that in all my travels outside of the boundaries of my home I have seen races come to blows often.” I turned the thought over in my mind. Yes, there were war and dark feelings aplenty in Middle-Earth; between elf and dwarf, between orcs and most others, and many a time between members of the same country or land. I could not pretend to understand the vast history that stretched back and soured things between these folk, the reasons that they feuded. It was still so alien to my upbringing and the culture of hobbits.

“Those who claim themselves the children of the light have always held darkness within them, much as they are loath to admit it,” Smaug told me. He lightly reached up and brushed the still-quivering spear from its place. The spells around it tore like fragile cobweb, and it clattered to the ground. A single bead of ichor welled up from the tiny wound. “Melkor sung duality into the world in its forming. He sung a symphony of morality so that it would not be a dull and lifeless place, an unchanging glass bauble preserved in ice as Eru Ilúvatar and his followers would have had it. Life and death, joy and pain. We his allies knew and acknowledged his gifts to us.”

“That doesn’t mean that there should be all these foolish wars and disagreements between everyone,” I argued. “People hating and killing each other over... what?”

“And would you prefer to exert your will and power to stop them?” Smaug asked, with the curve of a smile that showed no teeth. 

“Perhaps that would be better for everyone,” I replied hotly. “I suppose if I had all of Mairon’s armies I would just tell everyone to be happy in their homes and stop going invading other peoples’, and to help out their neighbours when they need it, and to forget and forgive all these long ago grievances! Maybe things would be better if someone was willing to stand up and prevent all this fighting!”

“Now you speak as one who may be worthy of that Ring.” Smaug’s tail curled over and around on itself, languorously rubbing scale upon scale. Some foreign Ring-instinct recognised it as pleasure. “If that is your will for Arda, why not go forth and make it thus?”

“I confess I hadn’t thought much beyond regaining Erebor,” I said. “I suppose I thought I would just be going home, but of course with all that’s happened, with how much I’ve changed, that would be quite impossible.”

“Then shall we make this an addendum to our deal,” Smaug said. “For I would see what you do with your power. It would be a fine and glorious thing, a wondrous sight that has not been seen in these lands for centuries. For this I would be generous with my property, in honour of old bonds and allegiances.”

“I... I shall certainly give it some consideration,” I replied, struck with surprise. I had not expected this subject to come up, nor the dragon’s fierce interest in it. Perhaps he had not been entirely truthful when he claimed not to be lonely and bored. Perhaps I gave him the promise of novelty and entertainment. And I could not deny that there was a certain allure to the idea. It had vexed me much on our journey to see the discord in the lands outside the Shire, and surely since I had come into such power I had the responsibility to do some good with it? 

_I throw my support behind this idea,_ the Ring whispered to me. _It pleases me much. This is the work I was made for, this is worthy of me._

_I shall not be doing it on your behalf, but on the behalf of everyone hurt by pointless feuds,_ I replied. This did not seem to dissuade it any. 

“So you will agree to meet with Thorin and discuss this system of tithe then?” I asked out loud. 

“If you will have me play the role of a landlord then why not?” Smaug said. “Although it is beneath me.” 

“Very well,” I said, more than a little relieved. Things had not exactly gone as I had planned, and it had been rather touch and go there for a bit, but in the end it seemed to have worked out. My overly audacious plan appeared to be coming to pass. I was preparing myself to leave, making sure that all the fire that clutched to my person had been extinguished or brushed off and that I could not be seen, when a sudden thought occurred to me. 

“Before I go, I would ask your advice about something,” I said, “if that is amenable to you.”

“Whatever it is I may be assured that it shall be interesting,” the dragon replied. 

I hesitated, but surely at this point it could do no harm. I did not intend on using the Nazgûl against him, and would not have risked them against the torrent of his breath even if there _had_ been a need. 

“There are a number of... servants, who came under my control when I took command of the Ring,” I said. “Perhaps you know of them?”

“The Nine, yes. My, what trouble could they have caused?” 

“It was Angmar’s doing,” I replied, not appreciating his smugness. “A subtle treachery through a lie of omission. The trouble is that I do not know what way is best to punish him.”

The dragon hummed in his throat, a vibration I could easily feel from where I stood. “To truly hurt a creature,” he said, “you must find out what he values. What he fears. What causes a Wraith’s heart to tremble, little Ring-bearer? What will give him the greatest grief and anguish?”

“How am I to find out that?” I asked, annoyed. It was all very well to say, less simple it seemed to do. 

“He is still bound to you, is he not?” Smaug pointed out. “Why, you must force him to tell you. What better way to start a punishment than for the offender themselves to set the terms of it?”

“Ah,” I said, seeing the sense of it. “Thank you, Great Smaug. I shall go and act on your advice.” I bowed, though he could not see it, and began to head for the stairs. 

“I shall look forward to the next of our conversations,” the dragon called after me. “You are a most intriguing creature.”

\----

I surfaced into the bright, warm light of early autumn. The earth-fire seeped slowly out of my limbs, leaving them trembling slightly. The effort of keeping that power under control had been substantial. The Company waited for me around the embers of the fire, the Nazgûl lurking in the shadows cast by the eaves of rock that sheltered the ledge. They turned to look at me, Angmar with a certain wariness. The dwarves followed their gaze, and saw me as I faded back into the mortal world.

“You have survived the dangers of the dragon again, Bilbo,” Thorin said, with a smile of relief. “I am glad to see you returned safely.”

I felt relief of my own; there was no avarice for the treasures below in his eyes. His concern was for me, and me alone, and it warmed my heart. 

“All is well,” I said. “I have spoken with Smaug, and it seems diplomacy has won through despite the unlikelihood. I have the beginnings of an accord to present to you.” 

“Are you sure that is entirely a wise move lad?” Balin asked. He was not the only one who looked at me with doubt.

“I do not think he is without honour,” I replied. “He seems to have some respect for me, or at least he finds me amusing enough to go along with what I want for now. The long and short of it is that he is formidable indeed, and I do not like our chances against him in battle.”

“What of a weak spot?” Dwalin asked. “Was there none of that?”

“A small patch on his belly,” I confessed. “But not easy to hit save with archery or thrown weapons, and when he is moving and using his fire and claws against us? Through the power of the Ring I have some immunity to his flame, but I could not stretch it to cover more than one other of us, and not even the Wraiths can stand against the terrible power of his breath.” It was true that I could have bested him not hours before if I had wanted, but he would not be so careless of his vulnerability again. I would not be given a second chance at it. 

There was much consternation and grumbling at my news. Thorin particularly appeared deep in thought. I wondered in that moment how he had perceived his own resistance to the idea of an agreement the day before. Did he think it odd how fixated he had been upon the hoard? Or did he put it down to some quirk of tiredness, of the long journey, a weak moment when some baser instinct surfaced? 

“Let us make no decision before we hear what sort of truce Bilbo has negotiated for us,” Thorin said at last, cutting through the various discussions. 

“I think we may have to accept that the treasure of Thrór is lost to the dragon,” I said. “But the seams of Erebor are still rich, or so I believe, and Smaug will let you return here and work them if you tithe some amount to him, though there has been no agreement on the details. I know this is far from what any of you were hoping for, but as you have told it to me this quest was more about reclaiming your homeland than the hoard.”

“And for revenge, do not forget that,” Fili said, with force. 

“What use is revenge when you die in the attempt and do not even manage to kill the object of your ire?” I asked. “I do not mean to force you into this position, but surely the only option is to be practical?”

“Do not think we can so easily abandon the memories of all those of our kinsmen the dragon slew when he came here,” Thorin said quietly, his arms folded across his chest. I could tell he was disquieted. “His crimes against our people are great. Nor does it sit easily within our hearts to abandon such a mass of gold that is rightfully ours. It is not in our natures.”

“And it seems wrong to come here and then be afraid to commit ourselves,” Kili said. “We are dwarves, aren’t we? We should not be afraid!”

“You would not say that had you seen him,” I replied, horrified visions of the young dwarves consumed in flames suddenly flitting across my mind’s eye. 

“Perhaps we should,” Thorin said suddenly. “We shall have to think much on this proposition of yours, and in the meantime you said you could extend your protection across another. It seems to me best if I accompany you down next time and speak to the dragon myself.”

I had been intending to put this forward for him at some point, but I had not intended it to be so soon. I had wanted to keep him up here, safe and out of danger until I had the dragon’s word that he would not hurt any of the Company. But Thorin was right. This grievance was his more than any other amongst our number, and it should be he who bargained for terms that would affect him most of all. 

“Yes, of course,” I said. “But I do not think it should be today. I think I rely in part on Smaug’s fascination with me, and I would not want him to grow too used to me else that lessens. I think once we have his word he will not break it, but before then I cannot say.”

“Then it shall be so,” Thorin replied with a decisive nod of his head. “We of the Company will discuss this amongst ourselves for the rest of the day, and then I shall go into the mountain with you on the morrow.”

“I need to speak to the Nine now in any case,” I said, happy with this plan. “Thank you for being willing to listen to my idea though. I know it is not exactly the role you intended for me when you first took me on as Burglar.”

“Roles change,” Thorin replied. “Certainly you have changed the most out of all of us.”

“And I hope it shall prove to be for the better in the end.”

“I believe it is,” he said, and I could see the warmth shining in his eyes. I would have stretched up to kiss him then if dwarven propriety had not still prevented it, and indeed it was hard to resist the urge. But instead I merely had to leave him with a smile, and the unspoken promise that the time was not long hence when we should be free to show our feelings for each other. 

\----

I led the Nine away from the hollow and onto the bare rock of the mountain’s shoulder. This was not a conversation I deemed it wise to have within earshot of the Company. They followed me silently, drifting over the rough terrain like the ghostly things they were. Angmar led them, back straight and proud. If he knew the reason for this, he gave no sign of it. I did not know how closely they were bound to the other Rings of Power; it was entirely possible he was aware that I had altered the Ring of Durin’s hold on Thorin, and equally so that he was not. 

When I judged that we had gone far enough, I stopped and beckoned for the Nazgûl to gather around me. 

“I have called you away like this to deal with a very serious matter,” I said. “I know I may not seem like I give it all the weight that you think I ought, but I _am_ Master of the One, and you _are_ all bound to serve me. I do not mean to be lenient in allowing those who break these bonds to go unpunished.”

“What do you mean, little lord?” Khamûl asked. “We have done nothing against your wishes.” 

He seemed to be honestly confused, and I read the same from most of the others also, their emotions displayed openly through the links to their Rings. It was only Angmar who remained closed off to me. If he had not before, he knew I had found him out now. It was clear that he was the only one I had to blame though. The others were innocent of any crime.

“Most of you have not,” I told them. “But Angmar knows of what I speak.”

“I make no argument in my defence,” he replied, haughty and unashamed. “If you were a master worthy of us, you would have known the truth I did not speak.”

Eight heads turned to stare at him, but he bore the gaze of his kin easily. The nature of the Ring he bore may have forced him to obey the letter of my commands, but his spirit was his own, and he was too proud to easily bow the knee. It would have been a quality that I respected, save that it had resulted in harm to one I held most dear. 

“And now your treachery is laid bare,” I replied. “And so you must be punished.” 

I could see the sneer on his ghostly face beneath the shadows of his hood. He did not say it, but I could see he thought little of whatever torments I might think of. I imagine that Mairon must have been both cruel and imaginative in his retributions; it was not surprising that I seemed rather pitiful in comparison. 

“Thus,” I said, “on the power of the One I command you. Tell me what it is you fear most. What penalty will most grieve and distress you?”

As I spoke I could feel my words resonate along the link that bound us together. Power spilled along the subtle chain, such that it could not be resisted. Angmar fought it, but this was simply another iteration of a mandate that he had never had a hope of resisting from the first day that he took his Ring into his possession. This was an echo of every demand Mairon had ever made of him. The words were forced out of him, past clenched teeth and a leaden tongue. 

“I fear most of all death, after so many years of immortality. I fear having my power taken from me. I fear the memory of fire, though it hurts me not. I fear being forgotten, that no man should speak my name, be it in fear or in love. I fear loss of purpose. I fear that our cause, so many thousands of years and ages in the making, shall falter and die in the hands of one who does not fully understand it.”

I held up my hand to silence him. “That will be enough.” 

Death, though it might have been his greatest fear, left something to be desired as an effective punishment. For one thing, it was rather hard to learn anything from the experience. For another, even with his disloyalty Angmar was too valuable a servant to sacrifice so easily. Even if he could never be trusted, he could still be unleashed against targets that roused his ire regardless of my feelings about them. 

The other fears though, they held more potential. 

_What do you think?_ I asked the Ring. _Which of these might be carried out?_

The Ring must have decided that explaining with words would take too long, for instead it flooded my mind with knowledge. Spells of binding, spells to sap strength, spells to banish a wraith back to its grave – for indeed he had one, for the process that had brought him to the state he was in now had not been quick, as I now learned. He had worn human flesh for some time in the kingdom on Angmar, ‘til he was brought low at the battle of Fornost. That had been a blow for the Nine, much diminished without him, their citadel at Minas Ithil – renamed Minas Morgul – not yet entirely brought over to their power. The men of the North had interred him, weak and helpless, in a deep tomb in the High Fells. Where better to return him for a while, where the memory of his defeat would be thick in the air, his shame and his rage?

I reached for the power that the Ring gave me willingly, starting to weave and sing the spells into being. Angmar perceived what I was doing, his knowledge of witch-craft great, but this was punishment rightfully earned, and he could do nothing to stop me. The others of the Nine drew back with something close to fear. 

The sorceries were complicated, but with the Ring to guide me soon they were complete. I let them free into the air to wrap around Angmar’s spirit, wrenching it cruelly through the aether. He was gone, sent back to his grave and bound there, unable to use his magic to free himself, unknowing of how long I would keep him there. He would hate it, and I could only hope it would teach him not to cross me in future. Perhaps the very cruelty of it would garner me some respect. 

“There,” I said to the others. “It is done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaug's boasts before he attacks are taken from The Hobbit. Also with regards Angmar, given the information the film gives us during the meeting of the White Council, it's a bit difficult to reconcile the timeline with the one from the books. I've done it by making the invasion of Minas Ithil/Morgul happen concurrently with the ascendance of the Kingdom of Angmar, along with the death of Eärnur, Last King of Gondor.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long wait for this chapter. I will be quite busy for the next three months or so, so I don't know how often I'll be able to update, but don't worry, this story is certainly not dead.

There were, of course, questions from the Company as to why my group of Wraiths had decreased in number from nine to eight, but it did not seem right to me to allow Angmar’s treachery to become known to them, both as his punishment would be a blow to his pride and because it would lessen the dwarves’ trust for the Nazgûl. I told them instead that he had left on business of his own, and would be back as soon as he was able. 

The next morning it was time for Thorin and me to make our way down the tunnel to speak with Smaug. I waited patiently for him by the entrance whilst he decided how much of his heavy garb to strip off, for I had spoken of the wet heat that filled the halls below, and if he was to face the killer of his people it would not do to do so sweating and half-faint. Finally he settled on leaving his cloak and his steel scale-mail, though he kept on the fine chain of mithril, nestled between his tunic and his underclothes. It still seemed like too much to me, but then dwarves tended to be more resistant to high temperatures than one would at first expect. 

“So,” he said, as we passed into the darkness of the tunnel like stepping into a beast’s throat. “In this I must bow to your experience. How do you wish to proceed?” 

“The protection of the Ring’s magic first of all,” I replied, “and then you can talk to Smaug without fearing his fire. As to what you say to him; that is not for me to decide. You have many rightful grievances, and it is not as though hobbits as a whole are good at putting aside a grudge. I cannot ask you to put them aside when likely I could not, if he had slaughtered my own people. I merely fear the consequences of deciding to fight a dragon.”

Thorin made a thoughtful noise. He gazed forth into the damp dark, a passage more easily illuminated to me as I slipped into the ghost-world than to even his keen eyes. If not for the steaming wet that drenched the air, it would be too much like Mirkwood’s night for comfort. 

We paced further on and down. I turned my attention to the power that even now was slowly surging around us, more familiar since I perceived it for the third time. It was not easy to draw it up and harness myself to its strength, but nor did it have the throat-clenching peril of before. 

_You learn fast, as always ‘little master’,_ the Ring said, halfway between praise and mocking. Yet with the earth’s blood like boiling mud beneath my skin, it could find no real bitterness or irritation within it. It was too much in its element. The mountain must feel so much like home, like whatever puissant forge Mairon had shaped it upon and within. 

Thorin was watching me, I noticed, as I became aware of my physical surroundings once more. I could not read his expression, yet there was something... _hungry_... about it. “You have done something,” he said. “There is... you _glow_.”

I looked down at myself. He was right. In the shadow-world I was invisible, yet from the outlines of my form warm light seemed to blossom out, diffuse in the blanketing heat and dark. It wreathed me like thick fog. How had I not seen this before? How had _Smaug_ not seen it? 

“Is this the mark of the magic you would put upon me?” Thorin asked. His hand hovered outstretched; he did not seem to be aware of it. The light drew him in like a moth. 

“It is,” I replied. Something about the moment, the secretive campfire glow in the gloom, softened our voices down to whispers. “It is the power of the mountain. Thorin... it is beautiful.”

“If it is of Erebor, I cannot doubt but that it is.”

I reached out for him. Our fingers met, and the earth-blood within me jumped, shifting with great strength behind it like the liquid rock it remembered. The link that led to Durin’s ring was but inches away. I had only to nudge it to direct the power through it, towards Thorin. It went easily, hungrily. I saw him stiffen, saw light come about him, felt it lap away at him like the now too-familiar touch of gold lust. In sudden panic I pulled it away and around, forcing it to pass about him like a river parting around a great rock. The flow began to settle, and my breath came more freely.

“You were right,” Thorin said, looking down at where our hands were joined, where languid gobbets of fire splashed down upon the stone and returned to their source. His voice was hushed and awed. “It is truly beautiful.”

\----

Smaug was waiting for us in the hoard-hall. His great head rose as we entered, and his nostrils flared, his tongue flickering out like a snake’s. 

“You have not come alone this time, Hidden One,” he said, tempering his usual mellow rumble with an audible sneer. “Earth’s child pollutes this lair of mine. I smell his sweat and his greed. Watch his hands for me, lest he snatch up some treasure and I must perforce bite them off.” He bared his fangs at our now barely-visible forms. 

“You are one to talk of pollution, wyrm,” Thorin replied with no less of a growl. “Your sulphurous stink could not be scrubbed from this place if we had decades.” 

“It has been sufficient to cover the odour of your kind,” the dragon replied, “for which I am grateful. So you are one of those stone-kin who has come to take back your homeland, and indeed the Prince of them, for whom else would come to parlay with me?”

“Yes wyrm, I am he,” Thorin replied, voice heavy with hate. “I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, rightful King Under The Mountain.”

The dragon laughed, making the coins jump around his massive barrel of a chest where it lay half-buried in them. “Proud words for the Prince of a proud people,” he said. “But your friend, he who holds Mairon’s Ring, has put me in a good mood and so I will speak with you rather than eat you up as I should.”

“You might find me a difficult morsel to swallow.” Thorin’s hand went up to grip the hilt of Orcrist at his shoulder. 

Smaug grinned, baring teeth each as long as that elf-forged sword. “A spirited morsel, ‘tis true. Well enough of your threats, and I shall put aside mine. Our weapons are words this morning, and I would hear how sharp are yours.”

“Sharp enough to get a good bargain from you, dragon.”

“We shall see,” Smaug told him, shifting upon his bed of gold. “The halls are yours, I care little for them. It is of the treasures of the earth that we must speak. This tithe, this tribute, your little friend has promised me for the favour of sparing you the flame.”

Thorin bristled at that. “You did not spare Dale, nor did you spare those of my people who stood before you all those years ago. Do you expect I would forget your evils against them?”

“I expect and ask for no forgiveness for that,” the dragon said. “I came for what was mine, and cared only for it. Understand that the lives of short-lived creatures matter little to my kind – what of it if some were burned and some crushed before me? More would be born soon enough. But I did not go forth with death as my purpose. You cannot change the past, and you cannot change what must happen if you want any scrap of your home returned to you.”

Thorin was tense and ready as though to spring to an attack. I could see the memory of the dead fresh within him, the memory of fire, of choking heat and scorched flesh. I knew I could not even hope to imagine the horrors of that day. But to my surprise he did not cry out in anger and hate, but mastered himself and his emotions before he spoke again. “As much as it pains me, I know you speak true. For my kingdom, for our home returned, I suppose even my pride can bow to this. Not that I think you any less evil, any less a murderer. But in the years past I have come to understand the place of hard bargains and distasteful compromise.” 

“Would you rather then wait and hope to strike me down as I sleep?” the dragon asked, but the question seemed more rhetorical than anything, and he did not wait for an answer. “No, I see you are not so foolish. Perhaps I have misjudged you. I did not truly think you would abide by any measure of this treaty that was put to you.”

“Nor did I, until I came down here,” Thorin said, glancing over at me. His eyes were warm and fond in that quick moment, and happiness flushed through me. I could only be glad that things were working out as well as this. It was more than I had expected. It seemed I kept on being pleasantly surprised by the way things turned out. “I set foot in the halls of my forefathers and all the memories of my childhood came back to me. I remembered anew everything Erebor has ever meant to me, what it has meant to my people. And I saw this hoard and remembered the worry and fear in my heart every time I saw my grandfather down here, glorying in it and consumed by his gold-lust. I do not desire to be caught in that self-same trap, for I know I have come too close, too often, on this journey. So hear all this, wyrm, and know that I deal with you truthfully.”

“Princely words, Thorin son of Thrain,” Smaug said, his tail twisting with his pleasure. “Princely and practical. We both are the creatures that we are, and I did not think our natures would allow peace between us. Yet if you may see past the sorrow of the past and your gold-lust, surely I can see past my love of my hoard enough to allow this... unlikely endeavour.”

It was enough of an agreement that with a few more diplomatic words they fell to talking through more technical matters, of these many pounds and ounces of gold, this weight of silver, these measures of diamonds and emeralds and sapphires, and so on and so forth in great detail. Although I tried to pay attention, I soon found my attention wandering. There was too much else of interest in the great hoard-hall; the lapping waves of coin, the beautifully wrought armour and weapons, the gems that glinted loose or from other finely crafted goods. Let the dragon and the dwarf discuss their trade, I would admire what was not mine. 

I could not wander far from Thorin, not if I wanted to keep up the link that let the earth’s blood continue its languid loop of power between us. Still, with even the small amount of practise I had had, it had become easier. I could concentrate on other things. I scanned the vaulted ceiling far overhead, half-hidden in the fogged shadows of the ghost-world, a little breathless at the thought of the weight of stone above. My gaze dropped down, past heavy, blocked pillars to the sea of shining gold. Everything was lit with Smaug’s warm-glowing fires and the unearthly vision afforded by the Ring. 

Well, almost everything. There was another light, I noticed. A soft, pale, wavering light like liquid silver that wafted out from the valley between two heaps of coin shored up by interlinked shields. It was not very far away. Keeping as tight a leash as I dared upon the mountain-fire beneath my skin, I tip-toed cautiously toward it. 

There was a gem, I saw, half-hidden beneath the golden scree. I brushed the cool metal aside to get a better look. The jewel was about the size of my hand and the light was coming from within it, a sparkling heart that moved and shifted with a glow somewhere between white and blue and then many other colours in turn. I stared down upon it, captivated. It came to me quickly what this must be. Thorin had spoken of it before. The prize of Erebor, the Heart of the Mountain. The King-stone. The Arkenstone. 

This... was not good. I dared not reveal my find to either of the parties currently locked in discussion behind me. Smaug regarded all of this hoard as his; this would not be excluded from that term of our deal. Thorin would see it as his birthright, and be no less adamant. Unless I wanted to destroy everything I had been working towards, I had better hide it again quickly. There would be plenty of time later to decide what to do about it. 

I shovelled handfuls of coins back over the top of the stone, taking care to note its position. Once I was sure I would be able to find it again, I stood and casually wandered back over to the others. It seemed that they might be drawing to a close at any rate. Thorin was nodding vigorously, and Smaug was smiling without teeth. 

“So have you two come to some sort of arrangement then?” I asked them, doing my best to sound casual. 

“I believe it is so,” the dragon replied. “Perhaps I have not insisted on as much as I ought, but for the entertainment and novelty of all this I am willing to be lenient. May you think it some kind of were-gild, if you like, for those soldiers of yours I slew.”

Once more anger returned to Thorin’s eyes. “It is not the custom of my people to accept gold for lives,” he said sharply. “Not that you are giving me gold in any case, merely not forcing me to pay more.”

“And you may take the steel,” Smaug said, taking no offence. Perhaps he had enjoyed their bargaining. There was much of the character of dragons that was still a mystery to me. “Iron is good and fine, but it has no fire in it until Aulë’s folk put it there.” 

“And much good the armour and arms of this vault will do us against you,” Thorin said with a bitter smile. “Yet we may still need it. I do not trust the Master of the Lakemen, and the elves of Mirkwood may come looking for revenge.”

Smaug laughed. “Why fear anything whilst I am here? None have come against me and lived; that will not change because I have showed some small mercy to a pack of dwarves who pose me no threat.”

“Still there is something in the air that makes me uneasy.” 

I spoke up. “I trust your instincts,” I said, which was true, although I also wished to take the side of my intended. Of course, I realised with a little thrill, that moment was closer than ever, that moment he would come into his kingdom and restore his honour and thus as he had promised we would be able to court one another openly in the manner of his people. “Even if it seems unnecessary, it is surely always a good idea to prepare for the worst.”

The dragon smiled. “As you wish, little ghost.”

We left after that, since the treaty and its terms had been decided. The soft noises of Smaug settling back atop his bed of gold wafted up the still air behind us as we ascended the stair. Thorin was silent. I did not try to make conversation – he was clearly in no mood for it. It was not as though I didn’t understand the reasons for it. The memories of his dead, of the great wrongs that had been done to him and his kin, of stolen gold and halls that stunk of fire-drake... And now a forced and unpleasant peace, the only path left open. It would take some time for him to stomach it, and as its architect, I was not the person to help with that. I only hoped he could come to forgive me for my role in all this. 

\-----

The others were waiting for us at the entrance of the tunnel, the Company and the Ringwraiths behind them standing tall and still as statues. Visible once more and shorn of the mountain’s power, I looked up rather wearily into twelve expectant faces and eight hidden ones. But it was not for me to bear the news of the conclave in the trove-hall. I looked across to Thorin, sour-faced and grim. 

“It is done,” he said. “I have spoken with the beast and bought back our home with the treasures of its mines.”

A sigh arose, and with it expressions of disappointment and bitterness. 

“Enough,” Thorin said, with a quick cutting motion of his hand that forestalled any objections. “It was our only chance of regaining Erebor. This is not something any of us wanted, but Bilbo was right. I have seen Smaug, seen him without the heat of battle to alter his size in my mind, and it was foolishness to think any strength of our arms could have felled him. We are no army. And it is not as bad as it could have been. We have our home, save that one hall. We have a means to make our wealth.”

“How much did the wyrm demand?” Glóin asked. 

“Of refined gold, one ounce in every twelve, of silver one in twenty, of cut gems weight matters more to him than size or quality or colour, but he desires half of all we mine. Iron and other lesser metals are ours, though Erebor is not known for those.”

“It is a hard toll to bear, but I suppose it is acceptable,” Balin said. “To regain Erebor.”

“Such were my thoughts,” Thorin replied. 

“I still think we could kill him,” Kili muttered, half under his breath. 

“We could not,” Thorin said sharply. 

“But what of the Arkenstone?” Fili asked. “Is there no hope of getting that back? I remember the stories you and Mother told of it when we were young. Such a marvel...”

But Thorin was shaking his head, to my own rising wave of guilt. “It was lost in a sea of coin when I pulled my grandfather away from that hoard, and it would take much searching to find it again. Not that the dragon would permit it.”

Should I mention now that I had found it? But what good would it do? It was part of Smaug’s treasure now, and he would never give it up. No, I decided. It would be pointless, and only cause further pain. Better to keep my silence.

“So what must be done now?” I asked the Company. “Will you draw up a contract like the one you had me sign? Thought I suppose that is null and void now... Still I can’t imagine Smaug signing his name easily.”

Bofur laughed. “Now there’s a sight I’d like to see.”

“Next we move into the halls of Erebor,” Thorin said. “And best we enter past the dragon, so Kili can see _why_ I have decided upon this course of action. Then there are repairs to be made to the outer gate, and a raven to be sent east to Ered Luin to my sister Dís, if one can be found that knows the way.”

“Aye,” Dwalin said, “I have not seen Erebor since I was a child. I want to waste no time before I see it again.”

So it was that we sent the rope down to Bombur and Bifur and the camp below and brought up the supplies load by load, and then finally brought up the two dwarves themselves, though Bombur took much persuading that it would indeed bear his weight. Our Laketown steeds had to be left where they were until we could bring them round by the main gate and let them enter that way. Then we lit torches and the whole great cavalcade of us started off down the tunnel, closing the hidden door behind us.

\----

There was no longer any need for secrecy, so the torches stayed lit and I did not dip into the shadow-world when we came to the stair into the treasure-hall. The Wraiths were set as a guard around me, their hands upon the hilts of their deadly swords. The Company were nervous too, but also amazed. I could see it the moment their eyes fell upon the hoard, the lust that both dwarf and dragon shared and that I now recognised well from all I had seen of it. Thorin must have noticed it too, for he rushed us on and down, between the heaps of gold and armour. He wanted them to see why they must give all this up.

Smaug huffed out black smoke when he saw us, fixing his great golden eyes on each dwarf in turn. “I had not thought to see you back so soon,” he said. “But on, on with the lot of you, through to your home. Go and think not of stealing from me on your way, for I know this hall and all it contains, know it in my blood, and so I shall know if you take so much as a coin.”

Fili’s eyes were wide and round, and he was not the only one. But Balin and Dwalin both looked upon the dragon with expressions of great hate and disgust. I had no doubt their thoughts had turned to the blood Smaug had shed a century past. 

Still, no-one spoke and no violence broke out. It was not the time to be thinking about gathering up the promised iron and steel either. Between two tall pillars ahead were great gates of stone with gilded handles, the way forward into the rest of Erebor. It did not seem to me that the massive doors would be easily opened, yet even after all this time dwarvish workmanship and ingenuity still had their power. As Thorin pulled they slid inwards like the opening of a mouth, and the dim light that fell from Smaug’s skin passed through them, illuminating the high corridor beyond. There must have once been lamps down here, but with the passing of many years unattended they had dried up and died. All was quiet, and still, and dark.

Yet as we went through and stood upon a flat, cold stone floor, enough subtle radiance filtered through from somewhere that dwarvish eyes – and those made keen through magic – could still see that before us was the railing of a balcony that looked out upon a great space that rose up and fell down for hundreds of feet. The yawning gap was crossed with strong bridges, and many shadowed windows looked out upon it from houses burrowed into rock. Stairs wound here and there, and all was carved from beautiful green marble and greenschist pierced with the dregs of rich seams. 

“It’s... amazing,” I said.

“It is home.” Thorin replied, and in the flickering light of his torch he looked strong, and handsome, and proud, and I wanted him more than ever. 

\----

Of course there was much to do after that. Thorin’s people had left Erebor in a hurry, and had not had time to pack. The great majority of the houses we went into were strewn with furniture and belongings half-rotted away with time. Even the royal apartments, where we made our camp, were clearly but the shadow of the glory of their finer days. Still, Erebor was warm with mountain-blood heat, rising up from far below, and we were comfortable. We brought the ponies in by the main gate and stabled them on the entrance level, and our supplies with them. The Wraiths, un-tempted by gold, brought armour and weapons out from the hoard. We set rooms to rights, we began to shore up the broken ruins of the gate with new-quarried stone, and we gave proper burial to the bones of those who had fallen beneath the claws of Smaug, though not without guilt. 

Besides all this, Balin also led an expedition to the old south-western watch-post on a rise called Ravenshill, where had lived in days of old the messenger birds that winged letters between the dwarven strongholds of Middle-earth. He took with him Dori, Ori and Gloin, and I joined them with Khamûl and Adûnaphel. It was about five hours walk from the gate, in the cold of autumn that could not seem to bite at me. I had too much fire in my blood now for that. 

The watch-post, when we came upon it, was blackened and charred, the stone half-melted by dragon-fire. It lay high up on a bluff however, with good views to west, east and south, and far and about there was nothing to see but the Desolation and the ruins of Dale. There were birds though, a small flock of crows circling far overhead, the song of thrushes brought on the breeze, the occasional blackbird hopping from one rock to another. 

“If any of the Ravens of Erebor yet remain, we must wait for them to come to us,” Balin said. 

It was perhaps the span of a few hours, but we were prepared to wait for longer than that. The creature that came fluttering out of the clear sky to perch on an outcrop of broken stone was a bedraggled and piebald sort of thing, speckled with white and grey through its black feathers, and quite bald in several places. The Raven – for indeed it was one of that line of birds blessed with speech and understanding – cocked its head at us and peered with rheumy eyes. 

“Strange to see dwarves on this mountain with the dragon yet living,” he croaked. “I am Róac son of Carc, and it has been a hundred years and three and fifty since my egg was hatched. I am patriarch of the few of my kind that have not yet left for the other kingdoms, and I know of you, Balin son of Fundin, King’s Steward.”

“You are old and wise indeed, friend Raven,” Balin said. “Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror has returned to the mountain, and made peace with Smaug.”

“Peace with the wyrm?” the Raven cawed. “I do not think it wise, but you know your business I suppose. It matters little to the birds. We are too small for him to take heed of us.”

Dori spoke this time. “We had hoped, good Raven, that you would renew the ties between our people. Now that we are here, we hope to spread the good news to our kin back in the Blue Mountains... and to the other kingdoms, of course.”

Róac bobbed his head at this, but I saw that his gaze had turned to me and the two Wraiths at my back. “Who is this who comes cloaked in power? Who comes with the dead as his guards?”

“Just a friend,” I replied. “An ally of the dwarves, and – although I suppose it is not exactly something to be proud of – broker of the peace.”

“I am old enough to know many things, and I like not the smell of you,” the Raven replied. “But I remember the oaths I took as a hatchling. You will have my wings, and those of my family. I will take your message, and all those you wish to spread after that.”

Balin bowed deeply, and the rest of us took our cue from him and did the same. The Raven croaked in approval and took wing. I doubted he would fly all the way to Ered Luin himself, but I was sure that our message would be in safe hands – so to speak – all the same. 

As we later came to find out however, Róac was not the only bird who bore a message afar that afternoon. A little thrush had been listening also, and the words it took south were to prove great trouble for us. It flew to Laketown, and a man named Bard the Bowman, of the line of Dale’s Kings.

\----

The Ravens’ flight to Ered Luin was long indeed – we had ourselves been on that road for many months, such that I had quite lost the count of days. Still, half a year on foot perhaps, and though swifter by air it still held its dangers. Plus however long the great dwarvish exodus would take to reach us, of how many? Perhaps a thousand or more. They must needs come spread out; else like an army on the march they would eat the country bare as they passed. So it was that the news of the fate of Erebor reached other places first, and the trouble from Laketown returned to us soonest of all. 

The supplies were beginning to run low by that point, and some talk had been made of re-opening the trade links that had previously kept Erebor fed. Some strange and unfamiliar plants would grow in mountain depths watered by hot springs and far from the light of the sun, but they had been left to grow wild, or to wither from lack of tending. Also there were great jars of honey unspoiled in the storerooms, and packets of cram wrapped in waxed leather, which was hard yet edible, but all else that had been in there had soured and rotted and turned most horrible. When the door to the first chamber was opened such a stink came out of it as to turn all our stomachs and make us slam it closed. It would have to be cleared, but no-one wanted that job. 

Bofur and Bombur, who had experience of working mines, had begun to explore the seams and deep delvings of the mountain, and had brought back some little samples of uncut gems and electrum ore. There had been some maps of the seams here, but most of it had been in the heads of the miners, and much needed to be investigated before it would be entirely safe to re-open them. 

As to myself and Thorin… well. It had been but a few days, and those busy and long. I had not yet had a chance to broach with him the subject of courtship – though from the looks he sent me I knew he wanted to speak of it just as much as I. 

Such was the situation when Oin, who had been sitting the morning guard at the re-made gate, blew the warning horn to summon us there. Standing on the broken path beside the river was a small company of men, led by a tall and serious archer with a great bow slung over one shoulder. He was dark of hair and beard, and grim-faced. He looked up at us gathered at the top of the newly mortared wall with a curious expression. 

“So it is true then,” he called out. “You are still alive. Does the dragon live or is it dead?”

“Smaug yet lives,” I called out in reply. “But we have made peace between us. Who are you?”

“I am Bard, called the Bowman,” the man replied. “The Master sent me to see the fate of he who laid claim to the title King-Under-The-Mountain.”

“And is that all?” Thorin shouted down. 

“It is not only the treasure of Erebor the dragon keeps beneath the mountain,” Bard replied. “He sortied forth to sack the ruins of Dale before he began his slumber. The Master would have me lay claim to that which he took.”

“What the dragon has taken he keeps,” Thorin said. “We have had none of it back, and he will be no more generous with you.” 

The assembled men were murmuring amongst themselves. Bard did not take part in it, but I could tell he was uneasy. Perhaps he did not believe Thorin’s words. It would not be so surprising. The gambit of a treaty had been unlikely enough, and for it to have succeeded even more so. 

“I will take your words back to the Master,” Bard said, bowing low. He motioned to his men and they turned and left. That would not be the last we would see of them, I was sure. I could see how the Master might be tempted into war, thinking us few in number, and the treasure vast. He would learn better when the flames descended upon him, but that would benefit no-one. Perhaps it might be wise to have Smaug leave the mountain and pay a visit to the town, so he might explain the situation to them in person. It would not do to actually cause any harm to the town, for we needed them to trade with, but a dragon is persuasive.

Yes, it was a problem that would have to be dealt with, but not right now. There was a little time. We watched the men of Laketown wind their way back down towards the ruins of Dale and disappear from sight, and then we got back to the work of making Erebor fit for habitation.

\----


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, since my fic for the Hannibal BB in done, and a certain movie came out, I thought I might get this thing resurrected. Some minor edits regarding timeline have been done to earlier chapters, so I would recommend rereading (although it's been long enough that you'd probably have to do that anyway). There's a fair bit of setup in this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

That night, as we settled down to bed in the many rooms of the royal quarters, I took my chance to draw Thorin aside. In the low, flickering light of the torches we found a patch of shadow in which to speak. 

“You are King here now,” I said. “You’ve bought a home for your people. Is your honour restored?”

“Aye, it is,” Thorin replied. His hand came up to cup the side of my face. He looked upon me fondly, and I looked upon him with hunger and desire. “I will no longer keep my beard cut short, but greet my sister with a King’s braids when she comes. And I may court, and marry.”

I felt a smile break across my face, and I leaned up to kiss him. I had not the weight or strength naturally to press him into the wall, nor did I wish to bring the Ring’s power into this where it did not belong. Yet still I took greedily, and had my passion returned. Thorin gripped my curls and my waist and pulled me to him. I tasted him; honey and biscuit from our meal, and something earthy under that. He growled, and licked his way into my mouth. I let him gladly. There was a fire burning in me, a heat in my loins. 

“Would it be appropriate,” I asked in the breaths between kisses, “to ask you to take me to bed?”

“We have exchanged rings. We are promised to each other. I have waited just as eagerly as you and I would have you, Bilbo Baggins, in any and all the ways that please you.”

“Then it pleases me to be taken to your chambers,” I smiled. “And taken _in_ your chambers.” 

“Then best we get there now,” he replied, and drew away just enough to direct me in the way to go, hand in hand, with many pauses to drink in each other, for it had been a long time to wait for this to be possible. I was glad we did not have far to go. 

The furs and furnishings of the great royal bed had been thankfully well preserved, for the normal vermin that might have destroyed them had been driven away by the dominion of the dragon. So it was that once the scent of must had been beaten out, they had been serving us very well the past few nights. We were I think both grateful for their softness, stripping out of our clothes quickly, impatient after so long, and fell onto that warm expanse, locked in an embrace, devouring each other with the press of mouths to mouths and over skin, tasting with delight. 

His hardness was hot and heavy against my own, and for a time glorious and uncountable there was only the friction between us, his solid weight, the rough hair of his chest, his beard, between his thighs where it rubbed against the silky skin of my cock. We had no thought at that time of finesse, of long, slow lovemaking, only of each other, of every smallest detail of the other and of pleasure, immediate and too-long denied. I came before he did, gasping out my ecstasy into his mouth with soft cries of his name, and he followed not long after, our release mingling between our bellies. 

We nestled together afterwards, wrestling briefly with the furs to cover our bare and cooling skin. Thorin murmured words of endearment into my hair, and I fell asleep to the sounds of Khudzul translated by the soft whisper of the Ring.

\----

Waking the next morning was a delight, a heavy body nestled at my back, one arm draped over my side, wonderfully warm furs covering all that might possibly feel a chill. Not that they were even necessary, for the rooms of the mountain itself were all a comfortable temperature, and indeed were I still subject to such ill effects I might have rather overheated. Dwarves liked things hot. 

I would have liked very much to stay where I was, but both Thorin and I had responsibilities. There was so much work to do throughout the city that we had barely completed a fraction of it all, even with everyone pitching in, even the Nazgûl, much to their distaste. Personally, I also needed to speak to Smaug about our recent visitors. Who knew what trouble might be afoot, and at least I trusted the dragon to be fair and impartial in giving his advice. The Ring had offered no thoughts on the matter, for the doings of Dale and Laketown had been of a time after it had passed into Gollum’s possession, and it knew not the kind of people they were.

Carefully I disentangled myself from Thorin, and crept out from under the furs. For now he deserved this opportunity to sleep on while he still had the chance, for I was sure matters would only start to heap up as time went on, with all the things that Kings must do. I made sure to leave a note, not wanting him to wake not knowing where I had gone. 

Quickly dressing, I made my way to the treasury. Although by now we were all inured to the scent of dragon, I was aware of it growing stronger as I neared. It had been unpleasant at first, but that was hardly something Smaug could help, and it was not so onerous by now. Passing Dwar and Ji Indur, standing as part of the constant guard of two that had been set on the gates at Smaug’s still-untrusting request, I went through, making myself as presentable as was possible after so energetic a night. 

Smaug himself was half-slumbering on his great bed of gold, buried half within it, but he raised his head languidly at my entrance. “An interesting smell that hangs about you now,” he said, with a certain amount of amusement. I felt myself colour, unable to keep it from my face. It was not that I was ashamed by any means, merely that it should be so obvious to him. 

“That may be so, but it’s not why I am here,” I replied. 

“What latest problem befalls you then?” Smaug asked, settling himself like a great cat, with his claws folded one over the other in front of him. 

“Surely I don’t only come and talk to you when there are problems, do I?”

_You do_ , the Ring whispered to me, amused.

“There is a pattern,” he said, but did not seem offended by it. I was glad for that, but also a little ashamed that I had not seen fit to simply come and socialise, as a good neighbour ought. We were neighbours now, after all, and even if one did not always entirely like the character of one’s neighbours, it was still necessary to be civil and friendly towards them. 

“Well I apologise for that,” I said. “And yes, there may be something of an issue. Yesterday there was a party of Men at the outer gate, Men from Laketown, enquiring about our quest here.”

“And after their own share of the treasure no doubt,” Smaug said, the register of his voice dropping with a growl of anger. “I trust you said they would not get it.”

“Of course not. There will be plenty to trade soon enough. I’d think they would value their lives, homes and safety a bit more than some ancient trinkets they’ve not seen in three generations!”

“Men can be just as proud and greedy as dwarves if they put their minds to it,” Smaug said, baring his teeth. “Well, let them bring their armies. I have slain armies before.”

_Not that that lot would be able to mount much of an army,_ the Ring put in.

“I was rather hoping it wouldn’t come to that,” I replied, frowning. “Perhaps a mere show of force? You might fly over Laketown, merely to show them that you still live?”

“No,” Smaug said, rather shortly, shifting a little so that he burrowed down a little deeper into the piled gold. “Do not ask so much of my trust – I have little of it. Not whilst this treaty is so new. Tempt not the hands of the dwarves, lest they prove weak and I must show the fate that comes to those who steal from me.”

“They wouldn’t!” I protested, but perhaps I was not as sure as I might have once been, not with the thought of Thorin’s terrible gold-sickness still so fresh. I was not, after all, the only one called Burglar in this group. That had been Nori’s profession before the quest, as I recalled. “Well. I can see why you won’t do it. But what else is to be done? I would not have death sully this kingdom so soon.”

“Even Men are not so hasty,” Smaug told me. “They will return, at least once, before the muster goes out. And do you not have command of these dwarf-sworn Ravens that might watch their doings at your bidding? Why, simply wait until they come again, and bring them to me. I shall put fear into them, as their grandparents once knew.” He laughed, like a peal of thunder. 

Still, it was a solution, and I was grateful to him. He had not led me wrong thus far. 

“Your advice is wise, as always, Great Dragon,” I thanked him, rewarded by his look of pleasure, and headed back towards Thorin’s chambers, considering the possibilities of Ravens.

\----

Thorin had just woken upon my return, and he greeted me with a kiss and pulled me back down upon the bed. I confess I did not protest. The next half an hour was very pleasant, if not that productive. Eventually though, sweaty and in a haze of pleasure, I managed to gather myself again to ask him about the dwarvish use of Ravens. 

“They are swift messengers, and clever,” Thorin replied. He turned on his back, allowing me to cuddle into his side and let him run his thick fingers through my tangled hair. “News of the other kingdoms spreads fast between us through their use, so that we might go to each others’ aid when the need arises.”

“Were they ever used to keep a watch on your enemies?” I asked. 

“As spies you mean? On occasion. To track the progress of orcish armies, most often. For what reason do you ask?”

“I’m worried about Laketown and its Master,” I said. “About what that man Bard might tell them. It would be easy not to believe the truth of the matter, have them think us greedy, and come in strength. I would not have any loss of life.”

“Best that we know then what they mean to do,” Thorin said. “Aye, I agree. Balin knew the Ravens of old; we shall ask him to oversee our requests to them in future, and send some down to the Lake.”

So that was arranged, and done forthwith when finally we arose from our bed. Balin went to the Watchtower, taking Khamûl with him, and once more we set to the work of making Erebor habitable. For the moment, the Wraiths had the task of clearing out those stinking storerooms, having themselves no sensitivity to a mortal sense of smell. Meanwhile the Company was busy with surveying, considering what damage had been done to the halls by Smaug’s entrance, as well as what had been somewhat weakened merely by going so long without care and attention. The armouries were opened and reordered with what had been recovered from the treasury, swept clean, things polished and sharpened where needed. The great forges, long abandoned and cold, were examined for the time when there would be enough dwarves here to work them again. It would likely take Smaug’s help to get them lit when that time came. Bofur, with the help of his brothers, continued his forays into the mines, mapping as he went. 

I helped out where I could, though I had no particular expertise when it came to the dwellings of Thorin’s people, and the smith-craft the Ring knew was not that of architecture. The problem that Laketown might cause nagged at the back of my mind throughout the day. It had taken our party several days to make the journey up to the mountain, and Bard could move no quicker. He would be reaching his home at some point towards evening, and the Master did not seem like a man willing to wait for news. And what of the speed of a Raven? Given the whole of the day, on the wing, it seemed reasonable that they would arrive there at a similar time. The earliest I could hope to hear back was tomorrow. 

I returned to Thorin’s bed again that night tired out in body, as much as was possible for me these days, but somewhat unsettled in mind. We had the energy for little, but took comfort merely in the closeness of each other, which had a perfection in and of itself. Then swiftly came sleep, awaiting the tidings of the morning. 

\----

Khamûl came to me early the next day with ill news. What the Raven had seen and overheard in Laketown was enough to make it return with all speed, and it had alighted at the watch-post a mere hour before, fluttering down exhausted out of the sky. 

“An elf?” I asked, already fearing the answer, but resorting to optimism all the same. “Why would we be so worried about one elf? They trade with Laketown all the time, is that not what we were told?”

_Don’t be a fool!_ the Ring spat, writhing with distaste at the back of my head. _She is an elf, and they are vengeful folk._

“She is not in Laketown for trade,” the Wraith replied. “She is a Captain of the Guard of Eryn Lasgalen, Thranduil’s kingdom, one by the name of Tauriel. Gossip overheard in the town is that she is here on behest of the new king, Legolas Thranduilion, to bear back word of the fate of the dwarves and of Erebor.”

At this I frowned, and felt a pang of guilt strike through me. Not for ending the life of the arrogant elf who had denied Thorin’s people aid in the time of their greatest need, but for so hurting his son, who had done nothing wrong so far as I knew. But it was done, and there was no going back. If he wished to know the fate of his father’s killer, then that was his right. If he chose to seek revenge, knowing that we had not fallen to Smaug’s wrath, then I would be forced to act in turn, but I was dearly hoping that it would not come to that. I knew that I likely hoped in vain, but I would not give up on hope merely because of the odds. 

“What was her reaction at Bard’s news?” I asked. “Was that seen?”

“The Raven’s presence went unmentioned,” Khamûl replied. “She saw all she deemed important. The Captain was much dismayed, but as the Master ordered Bard to return again to us after a mere day’s rest, she said she would wait for further news before returning with her report to Mirkwood.”

“Then we shall do nothing for now,” I replied. “Well, let the others of the Company know, of course, so that we can prepare ourselves in case things turn sour, but we’ll let Bard come all the same. Let him see the dragon, and bear witness and warning. If any come, I am sorry but it will not go well for them. But keep a watch on Laketown.”

“As you wish,” the Wraith replied, inclining his head to me. He left to tell Balin and the Ravens what I had said, and I went to find Thorin again.

\----

The actions we took as a result of all this were not so very different from what we were doing before. If we paid a little more attention to the armouries, each outfitting ourselves with armour beneath our clothes and with our preferred weapons always to hand, then this was only wise. Thorin suggested to me that it would not be very onerous to outfit the Nazgûl with adapted plate and mail, but when I asked them, Adûnaphel told me that by their very nature they would degrade whatever metal they wore, tarnishing and rusting it. Only mithril would have been proof against this, but as she said, they were impervious enough to most weapons that it would only be a waste to reforge and adapt those precious artefacts that were available to us – one of which, a gift from Thorin, was even then nestling against my skin. 

With all this, and the word from the shifts of Ravens who kept a constant eye on the town far below, we were well prepared when Bard reappeared, with his party of ten others. They came up the path to the wall that had been raised over the sundered gap that Smaug had left, twice as high as they, although still not as high as the old battlements above. Each was armed, but swords were sheathed, and again Bard’s bow was across his back, and there was no sign of aggression in their faces. There was fear however, or at least hesitance. 

Thorin and I and all the rest of the Company were there to greet them from the top of the new wall, and the Wraiths also awaited in the shadows below. “Welcome again to Erebor,” Thorin called out to them. “What might we do for you, men of Laketown?”

Bard paused before answering. He did not seem an enthusiastic servant of the Master, and clearly he felt an awkwardness with this situation. I wondered then, which with future knowledge only made me the more sure of it, if he was seen as expendable, to come amongst those who might be enemies. Finally though, he spoke. 

“Of old our two peoples were great friends,” he said. “The Master of Laketown would have this be so again. I have come to renew ancient ties.”

“Noble intentions Master Bowman,” Thorin replied. “It is only right that you know then what you are getting into.” He beckoned, and from my place at his side I signalled down to the Nazgûl who were waiting by the rather temporary door that had been set in the midst of the old highway, now strewn with sickly weeds. The Wraiths threw the gate wide open, Akhôrahil and Ren stepping forth to lead the Men inside. 

At the sight of them the Men drew back, and looked the more afraid, and I had cause to wonder what Tauriel the elf might have said to them of the Nine. Bard though came forward, with an impatient look and a gesture to the others that had them soon following him, ashamed at his bravery. Hands wavered near weapons, but as yet they knew good sense, and did nothing foolish. Thorin and I descended down the inner stairs to meet them, the Company following us. 

“Well met, Bard the Bowman,” Thorin greeted him. “We did not see you on our previous arrival to Laketown.”

“I work a barge, in less uncertain times,” he replied. “I was away. Perhaps you can imagine my surprise when I arrived home to find the Master’s men waiting for me with such a task as this.” 

“Perhaps you should think yourself privileged,” Thorin said. “For you will look upon a sight not seen by the eyes of men since the days of your forefathers – the vastness of Erebor, and the dragon within.”

“The dragon?” Bard said, very wary, and not the only one by the looks of the others behind him. 

“There’s nothing to fear,” I said, coming forward a little to make myself known, since I did not think they had noticed me. Indeed I had noticed a slight tendency to blend into shadows, if any were present, and more so if I were focused on some task that drew me away from awareness of my surroundings. Their attention turned to me, and they looked upon me with that same trepidation as the Nazgûl had elicited. The elf had certainly been telling tales. 

“A wise man knows when fear is needed,” Bard replied. 

“You are our guests here,” I said. “It would be rather unseemly to let Smaug eat you after inviting you in. I can assure you, he will not harm you, so long as no-one touches the hoard. He asked himself that you might be shown him, to better understand all that has passed between us in these past days, so that you and the Master can be sure that there are no lies here, and that nothing is being concealed.”

He thought about this momentarily, and then nodded, saying, “Then we should go and see this truth, and not prevail upon your hospitality too long.”

So our little delegation set out, along the great highway deeper into Erebor, whose walls and floor were still scarred with the marks of the dragon’s passage. All had been very dark when first we ventured here, save what little light came in through the gap that Smaug had smashed in the outer wall, but we had since returned some illumination to that great corridor. The two rows of torches had been lit, but since we were so few in number, there were only so many we could keep fed with oil, and thus much of the glory of that place was lost on those confined to mortal vision. The dwarves could see well enough in the dark, but it seemed a pity that these humans could not appreciate Erebor’s beauty as I or the Nazgûl might. 

Various stairs took us thence to the treasury, following a clear road we had made sure was lit beforehand, for the steps were made for a dwarvish stride, and might else have proved treacherous to our guests. Balin spoke to them as we went, in a friendly and companionable fashion, of Erebor’s history and of the links between Men and Dwarves in those days, and of trade, and wealth, and how both cities were made great. It seemed to reduce their fear and put them more at ease, and Bard himself asked well-thought questions, his quick, dark eyes darting everywhere and taking everything in. 

Upon our arrival I saw that Smaug himself had arranged his domain to his own satisfaction, with the great doors thrown wide open, golden light spilling through them, and the dragon himself displayed in all his size, posed to calculated effect. At the first sight of him the group of Men stopped in their tracks and stared. 

“Am I vaster than ever you imagined?” the dragon said, bending his neck down in a graceful arc to bring his head up close to us. His smile bared his huge teeth, and his breath stank of the forge. The Men of the Lake quailed before him, all save Bard their leader, who faced Smaug straight on, unbowed. He continued to impress me. 

“Yes monster, you are,” Bard said, showing his own teeth in return. “These dwarves may have forgiven you your slaughter, but we have not. What a cursed day, when the memories of dwarves are shorter than those of men!”

“Watch your words!” Thorin barked, and Dwalin, Gloin and half the others raised their voices in anger as well. Bard turned on his heel and looked down at them in naked anger. Smaug settled back a little, seemingly willing to watch the conflict the very sight of him had prompted.

“Are they not the truth?” Bard said. “How can you countenance this treaty?”

“This is our _home,_ ” Thorin shouted. “These halls, these mines, the tombs of our ancestors far below! Before the dragon, our history here stretched over seven hundred years! Dale may have fallen, but your people still linger nearby, whilst mine were scattered to the reaches of Arda and many may never know even now to return! Yes, I would once have had revenge, and the hoard that was stolen, but I have seen it is impossible. What is the past, compared to the future?”

As I heard his impassioned words, I realised again how valuable it had been to dismiss the gold-sickness that had fallen upon him. These were my own arguments, that I had presented to him, and as a result he and all the rest of the Company were alive, and Erebor theirs, and there had been no death. 

Even Bard looked a little ashamed at Thorin’s vehemence, but also when he made mention of the impossibility of killing Smaug, his gaze went to the dragon, and to that spot where the scales had been sundered, that hollow patch upon the breast. I was not the only one to notice his quick glance. Smaug made note of it too. 

“Bowman,” he said, his great voice drowning out all others. “I see what is on your mind. It was another bowman, years ago, who weakened my armour. Do you think to pierce me there?” He spread his left wing wide and gestured to that place, and I saw that since I had threatened him there with that spear, he had taken up a scatter of jewels, clear diamonds and pale opals, and thrust them into the weak point, stopping it up. “It was not a weakness I would abide. No arrow, no matter how great, be it steel or mithril, will pierce me.”

At this, I saw the faint spectre of hope go out of Bard’s face. It was a pity to lower his spirits so, but if it might have led to violence, then better the possibility be stunted now, rather than blood spilt later. 

“None should spend their lives needlessly lad,” Balin said, touching a comforting hand to his elbow, echoing my thoughts. “Come, you have seen how things are, let’s go and have a little talk about your Master, and what he might want before you go.”

Somewhat resigned, Bard and his fellows, still ringed from the shadows by the silent Nazgûl, accompanied us now to rooms near the royal quarters, to talk terms, and economic matters of which I knew little. For myself, on the way I drew Bard aside a short way for a private word. 

“What will you tell the elf of all this?” I asked, putting it to him forthrightly. He looked briefly startled.

“The Lady spoke of a dark power that lay now within these walls,” he said. “I suppose I might have guessed you would be able to see and know what mortals might not.”

“I’ll take no offence at you calling it dark,” I replied mildly, though the Ring was grumbling away in the background at the perceived insult. “I can understand why she and her kin might think it so. But if you truly believed all she said, I wonder that you came here at all!”

He hesitated a moment, but obviously decided to speak on. “I have family,” he said. “Children. The Master knows this, and he and I... do not get on. This wasn’t an order I could disobey. I haven’t yet seen a reason to fear you, but I freely admit I know little of evil. Orcs are kept far from our lands by the elven kingdom west, the dwarves north-east, and the dragon here. The spiders do not leave the woods. Smaug does not leave the mountain, much as he weighs on our thoughts. I am sure there are very many strange things out in the wilds of Middle-Earth. You could be hiding anything beneath that diminutive form.”

“So you take care, and back no side,” I surmised. “Well, that is sensible. Still, if you like, you might tell all of this to the elf Captain. It is best that her King knows the situation here, and I can only hope he makes a decision that keeps his people safe. You have seen the dragon. You have, I assume, heard of the abilities of the Nine who guard your group even now. Do you think any revenge of the elves would bear fruit?”

“Legends say great things of elves,” Bard replied. 

“I only hope we do not have to put those legends to the test.”

He gave me a strange look then. “You are not at all what I expected,” he said. 

“That I can believe!” 

Thorin called him then, for we had reached one of the rooms set aside for such meetings, recently cleaned, and off he went with the other men. I left them to it, wishing to consider all that might yet come to pass, my own hopes and fears. 

Well, we could only wait on the decision of Legolas, and what word the Ravens would bring. 

\-----

Whilst men and dwarves conversed together, I took the opportunity to speak to the Nazgûl, thinking they might have some insights of their own regarding all this. Since Angmar had been banished back to his tomb, there had been no other trouble from any of them, and perhaps a little more respect. But then I had never had the impression even before that they particularly minded the change in their masters. I thought their loyalty to Mairon, or the Necromancer, or whatever he was currently calling himself, must not have been very great. 

“Do you think this elf Legolas will try something?” I asked them, gathered on the wide balcony that looked out on vast depths and grand statues of dwarves of old. 

They traded looks between themselves, and it was Khamûl who answered me. “He is an elf. They are a proud folk, carrying long grudges, and quick to war against that which they call evil.” It was much as the Ring had said. 

“Which is both you and I,” I said, sighing. “So it will come to war. Damn it! I don’t want to see yet more of their blood spilt! Their king paid for his misdeeds, and that was all I wanted. That was fair. This will not be!”

“If they choose to come, they choose to die,” Hoarmurath said. 

“Smaug asked me what way I would choose to exert my will over Middle-Earth, and I told him that I wanted to end wars fought over petty grudges and old hurts. I won’t deny that we killed many elves that day in their stronghold, but it was nothing they did not have coming to them for what they’d done to Thorin’s people! What comes now is exactly what I swore I would act to stop!”

“You made no mention of such a plan before,” Uvatha pointed out. Indeed, on hearing it, all the Wraiths looked at me with renewed interest. 

“Well,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed. “It was only that Smaug rather goaded me on to committing to it, and made it sort of my part in this treaty.”

“The power of Mairon’s Ring was made to be used,” said Khamûl. “And whatever we all were in life, that has become our purpose also now in death.”

I could feel the approval radiating from all of them, and from the Ring itself, quiet on my finger. “That’s all very well,” I said. “But now isn’t the time for it. Not with these elves. If only I can speak to their King when they come, perhaps I can do something to prevail upon him that this is useless and futile.”

“You should take care,” Akhorahil told me. “Though you slew his father, this time he will be better prepared. Their elite will have weapons fit to hurt the dead, and even as we are, we cannot kill a thousand elves easily. If Smaug lends his breath, then yes, they shall fall, but he has refused to leave the mountain before.”

These were all good points. Before we’d had the advantage of surprise. Still, I reckoned Smaug would leave his hoard for them, if only because if they did slay all of us, the Company included, I doubted they would stop there with a dragon so near. 

_There are others you could call upon_ , the Ring suggested. _Orcs and Goblins and Wargs are all easy enough to sway to your service, if you would but call._

_And make into slaves, you mean,_ I replied. _As I can’t imagine they’d do it by choice. You should know by now that I’m not willing to do that._

“However it all turns out, it will soon enough be done,” Khamûl. “And thereafter it were best you tell us of your plans, that we might serve you in the ways that best match your ends.”

“Yes, in future I will,” I replied. They were right of course, I should have told them sooner, but I was not yet quite used to having servants in this way. It had been all very well directing them to tasks that benefited Thorin’s goals, but I had not really thought on my own yet save that brief conversation with Smaug. 

It was not much longer after that when Bard and Thorin and Balin finished discussing matters, and ventured back out into the great space of the halls, and we escorted the party of Lakemen back to the outer gate. As Bard began to set off down the ruins of the old highway, a sudden urge of curiosity came to me. I had a desire to see for myself the councils of the Master of the Lake and the Captain Tauriel, to hear what she said of me and mine. 

Turning then to Thorin, I told him of my plan, and although he hesitated, he said, “You are hardly mine to command Bilbo. Nor can I say that this will not be of benefit to us. You need not speak to me of the treacheries of elves.”

So it was that I slipped out of the gate and followed Bard at a short distance, slipping easily enough into the world-beyond and out of the perceptions of mortal sight. 

\----

The Master’s house was easy enough for me to sneak into once we reached Laketown. It was much as I remembered it from that feast weeks ago now, as was the person of the Master himself, who held court on a raised dais, with various advisors ranged around him. Seated next to him was an elf with chestnut hair done up in braids that looped around behind her head, a serious face, though one not without warmth, and form-fitting leather armour just visible beneath her green tunic. A long-bow and quiver of arrows were propped against her chair. 

Bard was shown in immediately, and nodded to both of them, if somewhat grudgingly to the Master. 

“Well?” the Master demanded. “What of the mountain? What of the dwarves? What of the _gold_?”

“It was as they said. The dragon lives. I saw him with my own eyes.”

A murmur went around the room, for I was hardly the only one with an interest in what would be said here. All the notable individuals of the Esgaroth region were gathered here, all the merchants and landowners and such nobility as they had. It was not only the lives of elves and dwarves that were potentially at stake through the troubles brewing here, but those of all these people as well. 

The Master’s face fell. “Bad tidings,” he said. “Very bad tidings. What do they mean to do now? Live in the shadow of that _creature_?”

“So they say,” Bard replied, his face grim. “But also they speak of the link between Men and Dwarves of old, and of trade, and of rebuilding their kingdom. Leave the dragon his hoard, they say, and he shall not bother us.”

He sounded rather sceptical of all this, and I could not really blame him. We must have seemed optimistic fools, or quite out of our minds, to be content to live so close to Smaug. Dragons were not known for their ability to make treaties. Yet the Master lightened at these tidings, and I saw that his eyes glinted with what could only be greed. 

“Trade you say,” he mused. “And what has Erebor to trade except for gold, and jewels, and fine armour and finer weapons? Things that made Dale great once, and we might have all of that again!”

“Caution, Master of the Lake!” the elf said sharply, speaking for the first time. “You would be foolish to ignore the evil that even now grows beneath that mountain. This is very grave news indeed. Haven’t you heard stories about the One Ring? Sauron’s Ring? That it has been found should send a shudder through every being in Middle-Earth!” She turned to Bard. “What of the other creature, the one wearing the form of something strange and small?”

Well, small, yes I could hardly deny that, but strange? Elves were ones to talk! Throwing innocent people in prison, not helping their friends, what could be stranger than that? 

Bard began to answer, but before he got very far the Master was interrupting him. “I do appreciate what you have told us Lady Tauriel,” he said, with an obsequiousness that seemed so ridiculous that it could only be feigned. “Believe me, after years near the dragon, we are quite aware of the terrors of evil.”

“At least the dragon is something we know, as terrible as it is!” Tauriel replied with heat. “The one who has found the Ring, and worse, seems to be putting it to use, is an unknown force. We have no idea of his strength or abilities, except that he slaughtered many of my people, and that is something that has not happened since the days of the Last Alliance against Sauron himself! This evil must be stopped, _now_ , lest another age of darkness blackens the land entirely. Strength no longer remains in the armies of Men and Elves to defeat another Sauron at the height of his power.”

I was very much tempted at that moment to let myself be seen, to come forward and explain myself, that darkness and evil were nothing I intended, only peace, but I was sure that the reaction would be at first confusion, swiftly followed by fear and even violence, after such crimes were laid against me. No, this would call for careful diplomacy at some later date. At the moment I could be only a silent observer. 

“My Lady, what would you have us do?” the Master asked. 

At this she looked disquieted, as well she might if she were thinking of strength of arms. Laketown was not Dale. It had a few guards, yes, and no doubt a levy might be raised from it and the lands surrounding, but it had no standing army, no martial tradition, no great years of training as had the elves. “I am sworn to return with this news to Legolas Thranduilion,” she said. “And I cannot but think that he will call up our army to meet this threat whilst it still can be met by one realm. If we are unlucky, that point will already be passed, but it is the duty of all Eldar to fight evil as best we can.”

“Lady Tauriel, I have seen the dragon,” Bard said. “He is old, and vast, and I do not think even an elven bow would pierce him. The last wind-lance of the dwarves sits atop this very building...” Here he hesitated, and his eyes went to the Master, and he seemed to decide it wiser not to continue. 

“It is true the wind-lances of the dwarves are powerful weapons against a dragon,” Tauriel said, smiling. “But do not forget the age of my people. Many of them are those that fought even in the Last Alliance itself, and there were fire-drakes there, although few in number. We have weapons of our own.”

This was not good news. I had no wish that Smaug would be forced to risk his life by their anger, and although I had no doubt that we could hold the mountain indefinitely with force of arms if it came to a siege, that still raised the problem of food. I had no idea how long what we had got from the storerooms would hold out, and elves were certainly patient enough to wait us out for months or years if necessary. So what then was to be done? It seemed again that I would have to resort to words as my weapons, rather than iron and steel and fire. Perhaps my tongue was not all that slick, but I had persuaded a dragon, which was no mean feat. If I could convince Smaug, surely I could convince an elf... if he stood still long enough for me to actually speak to him. Even with the Ring, I was hardly invincible, and would surely bleed like any other creature. 

I had heard quite enough. I had seen their passions in a way that a Raven’s report would not allow, and perhaps I understood a little more now. As Tauriel began to question Bard about me in more detail, I crept away, though still listening as my path wound between the tall bodies of men and women. 

“Strange indeed,” Bard said of me. “The dead men, Nazgûl as you called them, felt of evil enough to chill. It was frightful just to look upon them. But the one with the Ring... he was well-mannered. Friendly. He spoke to me of you, though I know not how he became aware of your presence.”

Whatever Tauriel’s reply to that I did not hear, for I had spied an open window and was even then wriggling through it, dropping down to the wharfs of Laketown and making my way back towards the shore, and thence for the mountain. I did not know how long we would have before the elvish army arrived, but there was much to be done. We had to be as prepared as possible.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dwarves plan, and more dragons are acquired, by means which requires Smaug to teach History of Arda 101 (abridged version), and Bilbo realises he should perhaps read some books (or ask the Ring, who knows what lies those nasty elves have been writing). 
> 
> Some liberties taken with LOTR canon, as usual with this AU. 
> 
> Some translations of names:   
> Ururauta - Fire-metal  
> Turcosú - Sound of a Powerful Wind

When I finally returned to the mountain I found the whole of the Company waiting for me, having been told the approximate time of my arrival by the ever-helpful Ravens. I quickly filled them in on all that I had seen, causing Thorin to swear in Khudzul and mutter something unpleasant about elves. 

“What is there to be done except what we’ve been doing already?” I said, since with regard to weapons we were well supplied, and there did not appear to be any way to increase our stocks of food by foraging in the surrounding areas, since the desolation of Smaug had suppressed the growth of plants and bushes that might have borne fruit. 

“Dwarves know siege-craft laddie,” Dwalin told me. “There are fall-backs and baffles we can build, deeper in. This part of Erebor was not designed with defence in mind if the gates were breached, but other halls are. In greatest need, there are always the mines.”

“We shall send further messages to our kin,” Thorin said. “Dain in the Iron Hills is closest – doubtless he will have already received our first tidings, but he is not given to hasty action. None of his folk will have set out yet. There is time to ask for aid.” 

It seemed quick for the Raven to have got that far, but when I actually tallied up the days since we had gained the treaty with Smaug I realised it had been nearly two weeks, though we had been so busy that I had scarce noticed it. Even so, without knowing how long it would take the Elves to gather their army it would be unwise to count on any outside aid. And at that, what of Gandalf? He had promised to return to us once his business was done, whatever it was. As a wizard, surely he would have the skill with words to avert this bloodshed. But then, would he approve of what I had been doing with the Ring? He had been sympathetic to the plight of the dwarves and how the elves had wronged them, but equally he had been friendly with Elrond, although Rivendell was not Mirkwood, and the two peoples hardly the same. Exactly whose side would he take when he eventually arrived? And with this realisation I had just given myself something else to worry about. 

_I would not trust to the good will of the Istari_ , the Ring whispered to me, being no comfort at all.

“Loath as any of us would be to destroy the works of our forefathers,” Balin was saying. “It may be necessary to sunder some of the walkways to cut off their routes of attack. We can always make repairs, but hopefully it will not come to that.”

“Perhaps we can lure them in front of Smaug’s throat,” Kili suggested, gesturing a torrent of fire with his hands. 

“And what if they don’t come in?” Fili pointed out. “If they just sit out there and wait for us to starve?”

“We deal with that as it comes,” Thorin said. “For now, we follow Dwalin’s expertise.”

As jobs began to then be parcelled out, and Balin left for the watchtower and the Ravens, Hoarmurath approached from the shadows. “Little Master,” he greeted me, with a respectful bow of his head. “The dragon has been asking for you.”

“Then I’d better go see what he wants,” I replied, and set off following him forthwith. 

The main treasury doors had been shut up once more, but there were other small gates easier to open. Passing through, I was struck by an unexpected heat. Of course the room had always been warm with the combined natural heat of the mountain and Smaug himself, but this was noticeably greater than it had been. As I ascended a flight of stairs to a better viewpoint I saw the dragon, again half-buried beneath gold, but also seeming to possess a rather unusual glow, a soft ruddy warmth that magnified the red of his scales. Indeed his long throat and chest were glowing dully with his inner fires, a more sedate version of what could be seen when he let loose his deadly breath. His eyes slitted open to watch me as I approached. 

“Are you alright?” I asked him. “You seem... feverish.”

“That is one way to say it,” he replied. “I am not ill. But I am... heated.”

I frowned. “Heated? In what way?”

He stretched his head out languidly towards me, huffing out a hot burst of air that ruffled my hair. “I admit it unanticipated,” he said. “But it seems intent is not necessary for the One to awaken this.”

“So this is something _I’m_ causing,” I replied, looking down quizzically at the plain band on my finger, sending it a mental query. “Well I’m very sorry to have been causing you discomfort without meaning to. I’ll stop straight away as soon as I know how.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” the dragon purred before the Ring could make any answer. “No, I think I quite like the opportunity this has given me. And you, in holding to our bargain.”

Awakening into my awareness, the first thing the Ring did was laugh at me. _Wonderful_ , it whispered, stretching itself out to skate just above Smaug’s scales like someone feeling the heat of a candle with their palm. _Oh, such a song I shall teach you to sing for this!_

“Will the both of you stop being quite so cryptic and give a straight answer for once,” I said, getting somewhat exasperated. Smaug chuckled, such that I felt it reverberate in my chest. 

“How much do you know of dragons?” he asked me. 

“Evidently not enough,” I replied. 

“For all the power you have won, your lack of knowledge is the greatest danger you pose to yourself,” Smaug told me. “Well, then what of those the younger races call gods? Of the Ainur; the Valar and the Maiar?”

“Hobbits don’t really have much truck with religion,” I explained. It embarrassed me to admit my ignorance, but equally there was a kind of defiance, an anger or irritation that I should be shamed at all. Knowledge was no measure of the worth of a being, yet that was the impression I had from creatures like Smaug and elves. A creature’s character made a better judge of such things, if you asked me. “Still, I have come across a few elvish legends in my time, which speak of such beings. And there is the one the dwarves call Mahal.”

“So much to learn,” the dragon said. “You should take lessons with the One more often. The Ainur are those which existed before this world was sung into being. Some elected to come down to reside within it in the earliest of days, when the idea of days was new. Spirits of varying natures and strengths. All had been one people in the time before, but soon rough groupings began to form. Divisions.”

I noted the significant look he gave me at that point, and I was having none of it. “Don’t go trying to test me by saying that war and hate is the natural state of things,” I told him. “People will dislike other people, I know. There will always be conflict, and I’m not saying I want to stamp that out. But it can certainly be settled by means other than violence! All these massive armies... Why, and I will wager half of those who fight on each side had no grievance with each other beforehand, and would never have had one if their irresponsible Thain-equivalent hadn’t dragged them into it!”

“Ah, I have angered you,” Smaug said, smiling. “Good. You will need that strength when you go out to stamp your mark on Arda. But I spoke of gods. There are the Valar, who are greatest in strength. And there are very many Maiar, those of air, those of earth, those of water, those of fire, and others besides. The one you know as Gandalf is such a being, a Maiar of knowledge, who was named first Olórin.”

“So dragons are one of these peoples of the Maiar then,” I said, seeing where this must be going. “But I thought you said something about hatching from an egg.”

“Patience,” Smaug told me, a little snappish at the interruption. The fires of his throat glowed a little stronger for a moment. I reached out for the power of the earth-blood merely as a precaution, noting though how quickly it came to my grasp now, after repeated use. “All will be revealed in time. Yes. I am a Maiar, residing in this physical shell.” He settled himself a little more comfortably, returning to his lecturer mode. “Of the fire Maiar there were three tribes. The Valaraukar are shadow and flame, named Balrogs by the elves, most favoured of Melkor. The Urulóki are the blood of the earth, and we are dragons. The others had no name to themselves, for they were disparate individuals, though many apprenticed themselves to Aüle and were the Ururauta. Mairon was one such.

“Once there were many of my kind in Arda,” Smaug continued. “In the early ages we swam without form in the great sea of fire that lies far beneath the earth. Perhaps some still do, but nothing has been heard from them in an Age. After a time a number of us arose to discover what was passing in the world above. We made forms for ourselves, and ranged forth in the cold of the far north where Arda bleeds and none ventures to quiet its glory. It was Glaurung who went first to Melkor’s stronghold Angband for news from the south.”

I still did not see what any of this had to do with his strange feverishness, or eggs, or anything of that ilk, but I did not want to be so rude as to interrupt him again. Besides, we were not wanting for time. Dwarvish skill would serve the Company’s efforts better than whatever aid I might be bringing. 

“Melkor told him many things,” Smaug said, then sneering; “but to spare your mortal patience I shall speak of them another time. Suffice only that Glaurung then went forth against advice to see the new-born races of Elves and Dwarves and Men for himself, for he was young and curious. But he was also Fire, and Elves have no love for Fire that lives, unbound by hearth and stone. They drove him off, back to Melkor’s protection, and hearing thus many of us swore ourselves to Melkor’s cause. 

“After that many years passed without incident, an account that meant little to we immortals. Melkor had no use for war at that time, and the other races were content with what they thought their siege, and so it would have remained if not for Thrangorodrim. For at the southern gate of Angband there rose three mountains with great fires beneath them that were given this name, and Melkor was long occupied in calming their rage. Yet the power of the earth cannot be denied forever. One day ash and fire and fury came forth, darkening the skies, and the blood of the earth swept over the plains of Ard-Galen, destroying the old and bestowing new life in the years to come. Once that bounteous land had belonged to the uruch, orc-tribes and allies of Morgoth, but not sworn to him. Their own feuds with the Elves had led to their slaughter when the Noldor came from over the sea. It was not only his own ills that Glaurung went out to avenge, heralded by the roar of Thangorodrim, but theirs also, and those of every creature named dark by the children of the stars.”

Smaug became more roused with this part, and his throat glowed fully, and fire could be seen behind his teeth, yet not spilling out.

“War came then, and it was glorious, with many great and fell deeds done on either side, and the blood ran red and black like water. Chaos came to the ordered lands of the Elves! The treasons and treacheries that ever periled their hearts were made plain to each other, though they blamed it all on Melkor’s doing, as was their wont. But once the plains of Ard-Galen and the passes that led to it were retaken Melkor tired of the bloodshed, for his plans had not been thus, and sent forth envoys suing for peace. Ever Elves and Men turned them away, but nor could they win aught back, and so the war turned slow and cold.”

I could not deny that this was all very interesting, since I had a passion for old stories and legends, but having asked for a succinct explanation, although this was not exactly succinct I could see that more was being missed out. I now realised that there were many details and events here that I knew nothing of, and meanings that must be escaping me. Still, for all that names of places sometimes confused me, Smaug told tales well, and his vast, low, rumbling voice was easy to listen to. 

“This un-peace held,” the dragon continued, “until it came to pass that one of the Silmarils, most cursed of all jewels, was stolen from Melkor’s safe-keeping; and of those we must speak again in the days to come! But the taking of this gem bore up the hearts of Melkor’s enemies, and gathering their forces they marched forth again to war, and the fifth great battle of that Age. There Glaurung fought again, and many others of my kind, and amongst the great host were a phalanx of dwarves from Belegost with armour they had made to resist flame. It was their King, Azaghâl, who first taught us that our bodies might be slain, when he wounded Glaurung with his fierce axe, smiting his belly where he was soft. 

“Death is a curious thing,” Smaug mused. “It differs between each race. Men leave Arda forever and go none know where. The spirits of Elves go to Valinor and the Halls of Mandos, and rarely may be given new bodies and return, as did Glorfindel of Imladris. Dwarves are taken to the halls of their ancestors, the location of which only Aüle knows. And we go not quite beyond Arda, yet not quite of it either. After the wounding of Glaurung we spoke amongst ourselves and resolved that we had no wish to be trapped there, so with the aid of Melkor, whose songs were powerful, and Mairon, whose smithcraft was great, we forged spells to draw our kin back into eggs that we would lay. 

“For myself, I died first in the war that came later against the forces of the Valar, and Mairon and Turcosú of the Uruloki sang me back to rebirth at the ending of the Second Age. I would have fought there at the battle of the Last Alliance, save that I hatched too late. And now, with that kin-power so close, and so many of my fellows perished, the need to lay has come upon me.”

I looked at him with astonishment. Admittedly his words had made me think something of that sort as he went on, but it was still something of a surprise to hear it said aloud. 

“So do both male and female dragons lay eggs then?” I asked.

“If you want to apply such terms,” Smaug replied. “But yes, we though it more convenient.”

“Well... congratulations,” I said, as one might to any expectant parent. “Do you know yet how many new little dragons will be running around the mountain...?”

“That depends on you.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” the dragon purred. “You don’t imagine I will be singing my kin back _alone_ do you?” 

“Oh! Yes. Well. Of course I’ll help,” I said, feeling rather out of my depth and not sure what to do about it. _This is all your fault,_ I told the Ring. It projected smugness back to me. 

_nd what better way to inaugurate your new dominion,_ it said. _You will certainly be needing the help._

As if things weren’t complicated enough already. 

I would have questioned Smaug more on exactly what was expected of me, but he dismissed me before I could ask, yawning hugely with a great show of teeth and citing tiredness. I thought over how much I should tell the others as I headed back towards where I had been assigned to work today, but still knowing only the basics I thought it better to wait. This would surely mean the treaty would need to be changed however, and that was likely to cause even more problems. 

I would need to take some quiet moment to talk to the Ring and interrogate it on the matter, but such a moment was not due to come until the evening. In the meantime I occupied myself with fetching and carrying stone and heavy wood and various unfamiliar shapes of metal and tools for Dori, Ori and Nori, overseen by Dwalin, in the corridors linking the main halls with those less impressive and expansive further in. 

\----

Balin came back from the watchtower that evening with news from the Ravens. Tauriel had left for Mirkwood and they were following her now on her journey. They intended to venture their watch as far into the forest as they could, but did not know how successful they might be. The control this new king had over his domain was as yet unknown. 

After our evening meal Thorin and I went to bed, and thence had a great deal of fun until we were both quite tired out. I still had something to do however, and once he had fallen asleep, I roused myself enough to begin my conversation with the Ring. 

_As I understand it,_ I said, for I’d had time to think about this, _you were with Mairon still at the end of the Second Age. So you must have seen this whole process, yes?_

_It is so,_ it replied, seeming eager to talk to me. _But ask your questions and I will answer, as fully as any might wish._

_What exactly is it that will happen next?_ I asked. _And what will my part in it be?_

_Dragon eggs are not like the eggs of birds or lizards,_ the Ring replied with a thoughtful air. _They are shaped of crystal and stone. The last time this happened, materials were brought from the bowels of Orodruin, broken up so they were easy to swallow. It is likely this will be a request made of your dwarves._

_Again, I repeat, not_ my _dwarves,_ I replied, sighing internally. _But that seems simple enough, though I’ll not pretend to know how stone can become something alive._

_Why,_ the Ring said, laughing, _dwarves were stone once, or at least that was the base of them, since Aüle had not the gift for crafting in flesh that his wife Yavanna possessed._

I could not help but reflecting with this new surprise that all this talk of ancient days and creation and gods was very far from my life as it once had been; a simple gentle-hobbit of means. But it seemed that that life was far behind me now, and indeed I could barely conceive of going back to it. There was a certain sadness in that, in being so changed by my experiences, but the friends I had in the Company, and Thorin, and everything that the Ring had given me and that I intended to do with it was such that all these new joys entirely made up for my losses. 

_Well, I’m sure getting enough stone will not be a problem,_ I said. _Does it have to be a particular sort?_

_Quartz, or chalcedony. But of course that is only the first step. After that comes the song. The duet._

_I’ll need your guidance for that._

_My voice is yours,_ the Ring told me. _I shall lead you in this as I have the other songs of magic you have learned. Have no fear that this shall be anything less than a success._

_Then what? Once these Maiar souls have gone into the eggs, will they take very long to hatch?_

_Not particularly,_ the Ring replied. _But they will need other materials for their bodies once they emerge. For Smaug, the orcs brought forth gold and copper, obsidian and charcoaled iron, and many hard gems also, and poured them into a great crucible over the mountain’s fires, from which he forged himself to the plan of his own desiring._

_If he expects that from the dwarves he’ll have a hard time of it,_ I warned. _We’ve not even got the mines open yet, much less started to pay their tithe to him._

_An answer to that I cannot give_ , the Ring said. 

Perhaps Smaug had finally found a use for that vast hoard of his then than simply sitting on it. He had said himself that he would not part with it for other races, taking it as the rightful property of his own kind, but since it would be more dragons he was making, or summoning, or whatever the correct word might be, he might let these newborns have some small amount of it. As to the iron, steel, obsidian and whatever else, we certainly had enough arms and armour sitting about unused. What better way than to armour potential new allies with them? I doubted there would be a problem there. 

I would check on the details of all this tomorrow, I resolved, and tell the Company after. With that decision made, and feeling less uncertain of my role in all this, I finally allowed sleep to claim me, and sank down into the glorious warmth of Thorin’s bed and his arms around me.

\----

“You do not mean for us to surrender the works of our forefathers to the dragon!” Thorin said, angry and surprising me with his rage. It had all been going so well too. Smaug had been pleased that I had asked the Ring about what was to happen, and that he did not need to bestir his rest to tell me more stories. The egg-fever was making him particularly slothful. He had even agreed, with an easiness that seemed almost suspicious, that the precious materials for physical forms should come from the treasury. I had gone forthwith to tell the others, and ask about iron and other metals, and unfortunately this was the reaction that had ensued. 

“No!” I exclaimed, “that’s not it at all! Just some of the weapons and armour, nothing of high quality or sentimental value.”

Thorin sighed, and I could see from the disapproving looks on the faces of Balin, Dwalin and the others that this must be some point of dwarvish culture that I was missing entirely. “Bilbo, there is no work of dwarven hands that has no meaning attached to it,” he said. “ _Everything_ is of significance. _Everything_ has meaning to the family of those who made it. All dwarves are craftsfolk; those who cannot make the thing they need barter like with like to acquire it. That is why gifts mean so much to us. The only things we make without meaning are those we sell to outsiders, _serej_ , empty, and there is none of that here.”

This did make things clearer. Nor could I criticise the strength with which they would hold on to such things, knowing now their meaning, not since Smaug had forced them to give up so much. I could find no argument against it either, not one that was not cruel. 

“Is there no other iron that hasn’t yet been used?” I asked. “No ore not yet smelted, no ingots stockpiled?”

Thorin thought on this. “It has been so long,” he said. “Nor were the base metal forges ever my responsibility. I suppose it is possible...”

“Supply and demand were ever well-matched,” Balin said. “But aye, I would not rule it out.”

“And there’ll be whatever was in the system when it was shut down,” Bofur chimed in. “Mind, I am of Ered Luin born and bred. These are not my mines, nor the forges I knew, but the principles are the same. I’ve had time enough to survey it here too. Ore is brought up by great waterwheels, and whoever had charge of this place had sense enough to pull the emergency stop before they left. It’s all in good order, and the buckets have whatever was in them ‘afore.” 

“That will have to do,” I said. 

“Still, having a load of dragons within these walls...” Gloin said. “I can’t say it sits well.”

“Indeed,” Dori said. “We have no guarantee they will respect the treaty.”

“And why should we supply any of this to Smaug?” Thorin said. “His crimes have been ignored for the sake of Erebor, but I see no reason we should do him any favours.”

“A favour for a favour,” I argued. “We may need him soon enough if the elves come, and what then if he delays out of spite?” For as much as he and I were getting along for the moment, I had no illusions as to his nature. “And as to the young ones, Smaug will be around to keep them straight,” I reassured them all. “And who knows that they’ll stay here once they get a little bigger? They might want to seek their own homes. Or... there are things I have to do, once all this is over. Not,” I added hastily, seeing Thorin’s face, “that I intend to leave Erebor, or at least not for long. But it was a promise I made to Smaug, and these other dragons may agree to help me keep it.”

“I am not sure of the wisdom of this,” Thorin said. “But we swore this oath; that Smaug should share our home, and no dwarf will break their word. He may do as he will in his part of it. As for stone... there are rose quartz statues in parts of the treasury, and if he can find them, he can have them. It will be hard to know he has destroyed them, but we have given them up to him already. The rest, iron and obsidian, we shall take that from the damn beast's tithe and let him sit a coward if it comes to battle!”

I sensed this was just about as good as I was going to get, so I let it lie and made no further argument. The power of my words had done so much more for the relationship between the dragon and the dwarves than ever might have been expected, and what right did I have for even more? So that seemed to be that, and I was glad we had found some solution, even if it was a compromise. The ores might even be more useful than that which had already been forged, having more possibilities in what might be made of it, although that much was only guesswork, and optimism. 

With the outcome of this news, our schedule was repurposed, and soon the buckets were moving again to dump their loads at the forges. The hoard-stuff would be brought in with the eggs nearer the time, under Smaug’s watchful eye, to be guarded there until they hatched. Apparently he trusted either the Nazgúl to be adequate guards on the rest in the meantime, or the eggs meant more to him than gold – which entirely made sense to me, since obviously family was much more important than useless, if pretty, metals. 

The only thing to do now was work and wait. Wait for the eggs, and wait for the elves, and hope that no doom would come from all this.

\----

“Glorious, are they not?” Smaug sounded very smug, and indeed he had a right to be. 

“Ten!” I exclaimed, gazing upon the numerous orbs, each a rough sphere the height of a man, looking so much like rocks I would have been pressed to tell the difference had I not already known of it. “I hadn’t expected...”

“Nor entirely did I until it happened,” Smaug confessed. “But there are many of my kin trapped in that space between worlds, and no other of the Urulóki left to sing them free. Cold-drakes are all very well, as cousins, but they are not kin enough to do this.”

“Yes,” I said, still somewhat discombobulated. “The song, of course. When do you wish for that to happen?”

“Have you aught else you would rather be doing?” Smaug asked me, his voice silk over steel. As a matter of fact I had only come to see him in order to check how he was and if anything had changed, but he was right that nothing I had been intending to do could not be put off for a little while. The minor inconvenience of it was, perhaps, a small revenge for the price the Company was charging for his necessary materials.

“If you want to do it now, I suppose I have no objection,” I replied, giving the Ring a little mental nudge to bring it to wakefulness. I felt the power of it stretch out beneath my skin. 

“Yes, little mage-apprentice, now,” the dragon said, and curled himself with a great ripple of scale and wing in a circle around the eggs, with myself inside. Already a low bass thrum was starting to come from the depths of his chest, and his eyes slitted half-closed as his head swayed like a serpent’s. 

_What do I do?_ I asked the Ring, and as it had before it swept me up with itself, guiding my mind after its own with a light touch and a burst of wordless music that seemed to come from no instrument but the very vibration of the universe itself. I followed on, unresisting, trusting it as I never would have before I had had bested it and became its Master, before it had proved itself loyal to me. 

_We go to the edges of Arda,_ it told me. _Not a matter of distance, but of stepping_ out _, as you have stepped into the realm of the spirit many times before. Here, feel the Maiar beside you even now._ And as it said it, I perceived. Smaug shone red and gold, a vast and liquid thing like a streamer of fire, like the truth behind the earth-blood echo that I had called upon those times. He moved through the substance of the place – for we were travelling, though I had scarce recognised it – as an eel through a river. The song of the mountain was around us, welling up from deep below, singing notes that I knew instinctively as gold and diamond and much else precious besides, with borrowed knowledge that would not fade. As we swam out, we swam down too, through rock that was at the same time fire and smoke and ash that rippled with memory, down to greater heats, to that which was molten in truth, slumbering beneath clogged and forgotten ways, unable to seek the surface. 

_With their kinship upon Arda we will call them,_ the Ring told me. _With the blood of Arda they share._

And even then, Smaug began to sing. 

It was a bellow of unutterably complex sound, but that was only the beginning of the melody. As it went on, I perceived how strains of thought were picked up and blended in, like a conversation, like an argument, like a great treatise on the subject of all that the Urulóki were and might be expressed as. I recognised there the song of Erebor above, of the earth-fires below, of Smaug himself, and of the Ring and the kinds of power it knew. Then the Ring was prompting me, for the arrangement was only just begun, and I had my own part to play in it. 

No mortal words set down here can convey the majesty of what was wrought beneath the mountain that day. Only song, only that song, was capable of expressing it. It could not be distilled, could not be compressed, could not be understood by anything less than what it was. It was the greatest work of magic that I had yet imagined, and never would I have thought myself capable of it were it not for the Ring guiding me, indeed, as much as working through me. 

Particular themes began to make themselves known as the piece went on. I recognised them as the form of names, true names, as Maiar would have them, rather than the simple syllables of elf-wrought languages, as venerable as those might themselves have been. We called on creatures and powers that I truly did understand then as akin to gods, but also I knew that I had the soul of my own god buoying me up in Mairon’s Ring. However had I managed to defeat such a thing, I wondered in that moment? That a mortal should make such a thing bow. 

Yet it was but an idle question, a fleeting thought, when all else was taken up by the song. And here forth came the Maiar, the Urulóki, the dragons, and danced with us in that place not quite beyond the world, and slowly, so slowly, we brought them back with us as we returned.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People will totally start to die soon, honest. I promise. 
> 
> In the meantime, Legolas is emotionally distraught, Bard is in a shitty position, and there is still something evil under the mountain. 
> 
> Khudzul translation: Greatest blessing, greatest joy, greatest love

When I became conscious again of the passage of time, and of the gleam of the hoard all around me, I felt true tiredness of the body as well as the mind again for perhaps the first time since I had become the true Master of the Ring. I stumbled where I stood, and sat down quite heavily upon a pile of gold. Before me lay the eggs, looking much as they had before we had departed. Yet I could feel the life that was now within them. Could hear, with senses other than my natural ones, the very slow beating of ten hearts, inside their shells of stone. 

Momentarily the air shimmered, and very suddenly the huge bulk of Smaug had also returned to the hall, settling himself down without care, sending coins and jewels flying. A great breath left him with the sound of a high wind, and he stretched out one wing to shield the eggs lying close in to where he had let his body fall. 

I let myself sit there, recovering my strength, as the dragon’s breathing slowly evened out until it became clear that he was asleep. I wondered how long it had been that we were away. It was impossible to tell, although I hoped it had not been long enough to cause Thorin – or indeed any of the others of the Company – any worry. 

A little while later, I saw one of the Nine coming towards me, picking his way over the tumbled fall of treasure. It was Dwar, I perceived as he neared. He hailed me once he was in range of voice. 

“Master, welcome on your return,” he called. “You have been gone these three days past.”

“Three days!” I yelped, attempting to scramble to my feet, and only just succeeding. “Three days! How can it have been so long?”

“Your dwarf consort has been distressed,” Dwar said. “We knew nothing that we could tell him.”

Oh wonderful, I thought to myself. Something else that neither dragon nor Ring had seen fit to mention. More pettiness on Smaug’s part? Or had he merely not thought of it as any cause for concern. What were a few days to one as long-lived as he?

“I had better go and tell Thorin what I’ve been up to,” I said, descending the slope of the hoard towards the stairs with caution. “Has there been any news while I was away?”

“Ravens returned from Mirkwood and the Iron Hills,” Dwar told me as we walked. “Dain Ironfoot is on his way with a force of five hundred. Although no spies have penetrated into the Halls of the Elvenking, many a messenger has been seen sallying forth with much speed, and it is certain a muster is being called.”

“Everyone said it would be so,” I sighed. “So much for my hope that the Elves would be sensible enough not to come.”

It was not possible to tell by normal means whether it was night or day outside the walls of Erebor, but the senses the Ring had given me let me know that it was evening. Therefore we headed swiftly for the Royal Chambers where the Company took their meals.

As we passed through the arch into the eating hall, the light of the fire fell first on Dwar, and Thorin’s head snapped up immediately, a look of wrath upon his face. “What news?” he snapped. “Where is he, you damned wraith?”

“Here, here,” I said quickly, stepping forward. “I am so very sorry for worrying you...” I did not get a chance to continue, for he had risen from the bench with all haste, coming forward to throw his arms around me and crush me to him. I was very glad to realise that breathing was another need I no longer had; else I should have had some difficulties there. 

“ _Umhad_ ,” he whispered to me, “ _uhfak, uzayang,_ I thought you lost! Fallen down some chasm, or spirited away by the wyrm, or slain in some dark place by the treachery of your so-called _servants_!” Saying which he drew away from me enough for me to see the dark look he cast towards Dwar, still standing by the entrance. 

“I did not mean to worry you, truly,” I said. “I had no idea what we were about would take so long.”

“You and the dragon?” he asked me. I became aware of the various gazes of the Company, curious, or interested, or with that sort of half-look that said they marked our closeness and were trying to give an illusion of privacy. Well, I did not know if Thorin had made an announcement to them when I was not about, but since we had stopped trying to hide anything weeks ago if they had not already picked up on our relationship before they were certainly aware of it now. 

“It was about the eggs,” I said. “A business of magic, to call the souls of the dragons into them.” It seemed the most succinct explanation of events. “Smaug and I passed into the world where I go to become invisible, but he neglected to mention it would take this time. I thought it would only be a few hours...”

“That fat slug,” Thorin sneered, but he was clearly too glad to see me to put that much venom into it. “I should have words with him.”

“It won’t happen again,” I reassured him. “I will speak with him, ask him to be more considerate. I know I ask a lot, but with the elves so near, I don’t think we can afford to quarrel amongst ourselves.”

Thorin’s expression was one of distaste, but he did not. I suspect it was more because he was happy to see me again than any goodwill towards Smaug.

“It will not be a bother much longer,” I said. “All that’s to be done now is for the eggs to be moved to the forges, and the Nazgûl to transport the necessary gold and gems from the treasury with them. Then I suppose they will hatch when they hatch.”

“This breeding of your dragon is causing more trouble than it’s worth,” Thorin said, half under his breath, then pulled me gently by the arm to join the others around the fire, whose smoke was being carried up by cunning means to a flue in the roof above and thence, I supposed, out of the mountain all together. I settled in close beside him on the bench, where Bombur thrust a bowl of cram and cave-plant soup into my hands happily, and listened with contentment to the buzz of conversation around me. Thorin was warm and reassuring against my side, and I almost forgot my worries about the days ahead. 

\----

It was our fifth week of our occupation of Erebor when Smaug summoned me again to speak with him. Great progress had by this point been made on the defences within the mountain, and the Ravens had brought further news from Mirkwood of the movement of companies of elves from the reaches of the forest towards the muster-point at Eryn Lasgalen. This was also, though I would not find out for some time yet, the week that Mairon was driven out of Dol Guldur by that alliance that called itself the White Council.

Smaug had ensconced himself comfortably in the iron-works, winding his great bulk around the huge crucibles lining that hall, as massive as any communal space of the dwarves. It was only in their personal rooms, I had noted, that they made places that were cosy to the sensibilities of a hobbit. 

In ten of these crucibles, as I saw as I entered, the eggs had been placed, and around them heaped the materials from which they would construct their bodies. As of yet the fires had not been lit, for they would burn for only a short time with the fuel that remained, and so Smaug would ignite them only when the eggs were very close to hatching. 

“It must be something important,” I said when the dragon turned his head to look at me. “Otherwise I would expect to find you still sleeping.”

“If all your power was not borrowed from the Ring, you would slumber too,” he told me scornfully. 

“I had noticed it was being quiet lately.”

“However you are correct,” Smaug continued. “it is indeed a matter of great importance. It concerns again the history of Arda, of the First Age, and those three jewels of utter doom that were named the Silmarils.” 

“You mentioned those before. That because one was stolen from Melkor, the war started again.”

“They were made by an elf of great skill and power named Fëanor,” Smaug said. “In Valinor when the world was young, and the sun and moon not yet forged. In them was caught the light of two great trees, Telperion and Laurelin, which lit the whole world by their radiance. But Yavanna, She of Growing Things who made them, considered not the creatures that Melkor had moulded in Middle-Earth, nor the natures of the Sindarin and Avari Elves who had known only twilight, or the Men yet to awaken, thinking them of the same nature as the Valar, needing not sleep nor the rest of darkness. Thus the trees were bright and merciless, and the light of them that Fëanor caged thus also.

“Fëanor was the most skilled craftsman of the Elves, and the most arrogant and prideful of their number that has ever walked Arda. Creating the Silmarils he put a part of himself into them, and thus they took on all his flaws. When Melkor struck to destroy the trees he knew he need take the jewels also, though they burned him in their rage at being parted from their maker. To get them back Fëanor slew his kin, and departed Valinor, and swore a foolish and terrible oath that he and his sons would not rest nor put aside any means until the Silmarils were his once again.”

Here Smaug paused, and reached with his long claws to the place on his breast that had once been bare and was now stuffed with jewels. Digging in, he loosened until they fell free like rain, and from beneath, held close in to his skin, he plucked a single gem that shone from within like a star that had fallen to earth. With it came the rank smell of decay, and a gush of foul pus, and with a hiss he tossed it to the stone floor between us. 

“You don’t mean to say...” I said, staring at it. 

“The Arkenstone,” Smaug growled. “Or as others would know it, the Silmaril of Maedhros son of Fëanor, who tossed it and himself into a fiery chasm five thousand years past ‘til the blood of Arda carried it here. If only you knew how much blood had been shed over this stone and its siblings, how many fell and evil deeds, the betrayals and lies, you would never again believe an Elf capable of good! It is the utmost poison, without mercy, possessed of utter malice! Only Fëanor’s hand might have coaxed them back into slumber, but he is long dead and they hate any creature that is not him. This stone woke the gold-lust in Thrain’s heart. For all your efforts it would do the same to Thorin if he laid eyes upon it.”

I looked upon the gem with growing horror. And yet for all of Smaug’s words the beauty of it still called to me. I still found it fair and good to look upon. I shuddered, and tore my gaze away, and closed my eyes. I focused on the sleeping presence of the Ring, as it softly whispered to itself in quiet Black Speech. 

“It doesn’t seem to affect you,” I said quietly, not opening my eyes.

Smaug snorted, disdainful. I felt the heat of it in the air. “Not perhaps my mind,” he said. “But doubtless you can smell the poison that has grown in my flesh. But I must keep it hence until I return to the hoard and can secrete it in some appropriate place where no dwarf can lay his sticky fingers upon it.”

“Thank you,” I said, wholeheartedly meaning it. “Thank you. Now please take it away again.”

\----

Although we had hoped otherwise, an army of marching dwarves could not make such good time as a Raven in flight, and so the army of Legolas Thranduilion, issuing forth from Mirkwood, would reach Erebor before help could arrive. With them the Elves brought strange covered carts pulled by their strong, fine horses, and though the Ravens could not see what was inside, my suspicions were that they must be the weapons against dragons which Tauriel had spoken of. From the eaves of the forest, they would be here within a week. 

Yet there was not much more that could be done but wait. Our defences had been prepared, food stocks accounted, we were armed and armoured and we had a dragon. We would not be easy to assail. None of that knowledge helped. I knew there would be blood to come, it was all but inevitable, but I hated that it was so unavoidable. 

I did notice however, during those long, quiet days, that Thorin was doing something in secret. From his manner I did not think it anything I should be worried about; it was not that kind of concealment. Rather I suspected he was doing something for me, for I saw him talking with the Nazgûl, whom he still did not much like, and with the other dwarves as well. It struck me that this might be another step in the dwarven courting process, although if so I hoped he would tell me what might be expected from me in return. Thinking of an appropriate gift to give him would not be easy, but at least I could distract myself from my thoughts by heading down that line. 

And then, all of a sudden, the Elves had arrived at the Lake. Their camp was set by the head of the lake where the River Running spilled into it. Many tents of blue and green spread out under the winter sun, clearly visible from the rise before the Gate. My heart sank to see them. Yet I knew that I must go forth, look over them for myself, and hope that some opportunity for words and diplomacy might come. 

Thus I called the Wraiths to me, and asked them to put aside the cloaks and gloves that Angmar had enchanted for them, so that they could follow me unseen as they had upon our sortie into Eryn Lasgalen months ago. Of course I told Thorin where I was going, and reassured him that I would not reveal myself if it was not safe, and would summon the Nazgûl if I encountered any trouble, although it was clearly not much comfort to him. Still, he made no motion to prevent me from going. 

It was the work of a day to make our way to that camp, arriving under cover of darkness as the long night fell. Lamps and torches were lit, but we passed the ring of their sentries unseen, and I left the Wraiths near the perimeter whilst I went further in. 

The covered wagons had been bared. Inside were curious devices which at first I could not puzzle out, for they were disassembled in several parts. Then I came upon a team of elves who were putting one together, and I perceived at once how close in design it was to the wind-lance that sat atop the Master’s house in Laketown. But instead of four curves bent back on a single point there were but two; a bow placed upon its side. Yet by the attachment of it to its base they could swing it about to point in any possible direction, even directly overhead, and it was so well balanced that it could come around with great speed at merely the slightest pressure. For its armoury they had a rack of long metal arrows, as tall as any of them, wickedly barbed at the tips, and attached at their ends to very long coils of chain. As I watched, the elves took four massive spikes and began driving them into the earth to make a rough square. From each of these spikes came another chain, and they met in the middle at a great ring. I saw then how the coil from the arrows would fasten on to this ring, and imagined what might happen if such a weapon was to somehow pierce Smaug’s hide. He would be trapped, unable to get away without great pain and effort. 

It was vital that he be made aware of this, but I knew I could not make haste to return just yet. There was more to be seen, more to learn, and who knew what opportunities might yet present themselves?

A little more wandering brought me further into the camp, and I spied ahead of me a tent particularly large and fine. There were familiar guards set about it; wearing the same armour as those in the Elf-king’s palace, with the same shields and same long blades. Surely then I would find Legolas Thranduilion here. Invisible as I was, and as silent as all hobbits were capable of being, it was no great work to slip by them and through the open flap of the entrance whence I could hear the sound of voices. 

Inside the place was lit by warm candles, and maps and other documents were spread out on light tables of curious folding design. Two more guards stood at corners, but my attention was more drawn by the other inhabitants. I recognised King Legolas immediately, knowing his face as that which I had last seen pale and weeping, laid against the cold stone of a pillar in his father’s throne room. Now it was tense and angry, his eyes hard with passion, his lips drawn thin against his rage. He was clad in the same armour as before, with his bow to hand and two long knives strapped against his spine, but he had taken up his father’s autumn crown, though it sat strangely on his brow. Captain Tauriel was there also, pacing the perimeter like a cat, and more concerning, so were both Bard the Bowman and the Master of Laketown. 

“We have no army so vast and magnificent of yours, O King,” the Master was saying as I entered, bowing and smiling and none of it reaching his eyes. “What would we call up? Would you have us thrust spear and swords into the arms of farmers and fishermen?” 

“I would have you take a stand against evil!” Legolas replied, with heat, and I saw too that he was armed with a sword at his waist, for his hand rested upon the hilt as he spoke. It seemed I had come in in the midst of an argument. 

“There is nothing I wish more,” the Master said. “And were it in my power I would do everything I could to aid our allies who have been so very kind to us over the years, but it simply is not possible!” 

As much as I found the man’s manner grating, preferring more straightforward words myself, I could not deny he knew his business as a diplomat. He said nothing that could be taken as insult or disagreement with the elves’ demands, and his excuses whether true or not were believable. Indeed I was on his side in this matter. I did not want to see the forces of Men set against us, to die in dragon fire or slain by Morgul blades. 

“You name yourself as allies,” Legolas said, with his knuckles white on the hilt of his blade, “but I hear from you the lies of the Power in the Mountain. I hear gold-lust, and the weakness of Men. What promises have they made you? Riches? A throne? Evil will say anything to deceive such as you. Wait but a little and those promises will turn to dust and ashes as you are ground beneath the feet of Erebor!”

That was utterly unfair! Even if I had made such oaths – and I knew full-well that the Elf-king was not referring to trade but bribery – I would not break my word like that! If I was going to buy off a people, which was clearly no long-term solution but yet still better than spilling their blood surely, then they would be bought! Did Legolas think me so short-sighted? Was it not plain that to become known as an oath-breaker meant no one would make oaths with you again in future? Well, perhaps Mairon had done such things in the past, since I admitted the elf spoke as one with the belief of experience. I could imagine a Maiar not thinking mortals worth the respect. But I did not mean to repeat such mistakes. 

The temptation was there to slip out of the shadow-realm and make my own defence, as there had been before at the counsels of Tauriel, but I was saved from that need by the cautious words of Bard. 

“Your Majesty, I have set foot beneath that mountain,” he said. “The only promises I heard were the return of the days of old, of Dale and Erebor united. The dragon I saw, and would indeed see him slain for his crimes. Eight dead men I saw too, and they were fell indeed. I have met the creature you speak of, and he did not offer me anything save friendship. But I don’t deny a fair face can lie, or offer evil to one group and favour to another. I myself will fight in your army if you ask me to, but the Master is right. Laketown is not Dale of old; our guards are more suited to petty criminals and bar-room brawls than the concerns of Kings.”

“Your words do you credit, Bard of Laketown,” Tauriel said, inclining her head to him, but Legolas Thranduilion was not so gracious. 

“And will you hide behind such craven words when the dragon comes for you?” he snapped. “When the men of the lake are dragged in chains to slavery in Erebor’s mines? When the Naugrim hunt your women and children for sport?”

The enormity of the cruelty he would attribute to us left me utterly without words. And yet, these were his honest beliefs, forged from his pain and from... what? Old tales of the last to bear this Ring? I had read no histories of the Second Age, but had things been thus then? If so I could understand caution, and I could understand a motive of revenge, but what made King Legolas so sure I would follow in Mairon’s footsteps? Why would I be the same Dark Lord that he was? 

But of course they would not take that chance, would they? Not when I had Mairon’s old servants, not when I had brokered a treaty with a dragon, not when I had paid back their own misdeeds – and how long had it been since they were last held accountable for their actions like that? And how might I prove to them that I was not a monster? Words would never be enough, and they would not let me be for long enough to prove it through my deeds. 

Besides, I had sworn an oath to change the ways of Middle-Earth. Never through such misrule, but not knowing me or my motives, I could easily imagine it would be seen as the rise of a tyrant. And yet it was only their own ills I would be outlawing. Saving them from their own ancient hatreds, from this frequent shedding of blood that seemed to crop up some place or another from decade to decade. Without quite meaning, I had set myself up in opposition to the elves of Mirkwood, and likely elves everywhere. 

My heart sank at the realisation. It was too late to turn back now. But there must be some way! Some way to persuade them not to raise their armies against me, to shed their blood to stop their version of me which could not be farther from the truth. 

If there was, the solution would not come to me at such a time and in such a moment. It would require more thought.

“Your majesty,” the Master was saying, letting no cracks show in his smile although I could see the search for words to calm the Elf-king’s anger in his eyes. “Let us help the fight in more simple ways. Food, medicines, whatever other supplies you need...”

“No,” and with a flash of steel the sword was out and its power unbound and I recognised it as the self-same blade that Thranduil had once wielded. Its point was laid against the Master’s chest. “No. You will call up your muster; you soldiers, your guards, your strength no matter how feeble. You will join us on the field. Or you will taste the wrath of the elves before the Naugrim do.”

The Master swallowed. Nodded. Made what might have been a little whimpering noise in the back of this throat. Legolas looked as though he was carved out of stone. 

I left. I could see that diplomacy would not avail me here. I would come down to fire, and blood.

\----

I shared the bad news with the dwarves on my return to the mountain. Thorin snorted in contempt to hear it. 

“I would have expected nothing less from their kind,” he said. “We knew this was coming. Even if that Ring had never come to you, if we had managed to take Erebor by other means this still would have happened, save that it would have been another elf riding at the head of that army. It would have been for the riches of the hoard, if not for this, so do not feel guilty Bilbo.”

I smiled at him, thankful for his reassurance. He was right; I had been feeling guilty for bringing this upon us all, although given the chance I did not think I would have changed any of my past actions. 

“No doubt they will be up here soon to tell us the terms of their siege,” Balin said. “But Dain is coming, we must not forget that.”

“Aye, they will pay dearly in blood for this,” Dwalin agreed. “The more so if they think to come into this mountain.” He was very proud of the work we had been doing over the past weeks, and rightly so. There were many traps now laid for the unwary invader. 

I sighed. “I shall go tell Smaug of all this. He may wish to come up here when their party arrives; we shall hear of it from the Ravens with time to spare.”

“Perhaps he will put his flame and sour words to a good use for once,” Thorin said. 

There would be a need for my words again once this was over, for I had merely papered the rift that many deaths had created between Smaug and the dwarves, and time and care would be necessary to make this peace and the treaty lasting. But for now I must put that aside. Think of war, and killing, for it had become necessary and I could not afford to shrink from it. The time for softer things would come again, but many would be slain before then. 

\----

The party that came calling for our surrender did not make us wait long. Ravens brought word of them the next day, and although Smaug was loath to leave the forges and the eggs within, the Company was at the Gate well away from any of his treasure, he had as much at stake in this as any of us. He came slithering up through halls that were narrow only for him, and planted himself crouching on the walkway into the mountain, stretching out his neck so that he could spy over our new-built wall while still concealed by the shadows. 

Legolas Thranduilion was not amongst that group, perhaps realising his surfeit of emotion might drive him to something rash. Captain Tauriel came in his stead, and Bard was there also, looking less than happy with his role. A small guard of elves accompanied them. Not enough to make any difference if we truly had decided to attack, but they were for show more than anything, I judged. 

“Dwarves of Erebor,” Tauriel shouted when they were near enough, mounting a nearby outcropping of rock so that she might clearly be seen. “We have come to see you pay for your crimes! The mountain is besieged! Surrender now and only your master and his fell servants shall be slain. You may go free from this place.”

Thorin said something rather unpleasant in Khuzdul, and he was not the only one. Overhead, Smaug chuckled. 

A slight nudge woke the Ring from its slumber. Drawing on it to make my voice louder, I stepped up to the top of the wall. “We will not agree to your demands,” I called back. “Nor do you have the strength to enforce them.”

“Then come forth and test us,” the elf challenged. “Or stay where you are and eat gold if you can!”

Steeling myself against any softer emotion, I gestured to Smaug as we had agreed. His belly glowed, his mouth gaped, and forth spewed flames to scour the rock before us, licking out towards the elves and forcing them to back away. None were hurt by it, but the dragon’s aim would be better the next time.

“Take that as a warning,” I shouted. “Leave, now, all of you! Go back to your homes and forget all this and be safe!”

They made no reply. I had not expected one. 

As they turned to leave, I reflected that for the most part our lives within the mountain would not change, for all that an army sat on our doorstep. No, not until food began to run out, and then we would have to take stock of the situation again. But for the moment, we waited on the moves of our enemies, and much ill luck I wished upon them now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin gives Bilbo a gift, a young dragon is born, another threat is revealed, and things take a definite turn for the worse.
> 
> Names: Tyelcanar - Swift Fire, Raumo - Noise of A Storm, Nappa - Talon, Heren - Good Fortune/Wealth, Calarus - Polished Copper, Angatúrë - Strength of Iron, Ondolissë - Sweet Stone

For a week after that little confrontation not much of note occurred. We had taken stock of the supplies available to us and worked out a system of rationing which would let us hold out for at least a month without much hardship, but after that it would be necessary to make plans. Dain would have arrived with his dwarves by that time however, at which point we would sally forth into battle with them, with less need to fear the numbers of the elvish army. But in the meantime there was little for us to do but wait. 

Well, little for me to do. Thorin was still about his secret business at that point, and it kept him busy for long hours each day, off I knew not where. It was not until the second week of the siege, the seventh week since the treaty, that he finally came to me with a wide smile on his face and said he had something to show me. 

“So I finally get to know your secret?” I asked him, teasing. “Whatever it is, you have certainly been putting a lot of effort into it.”

“And it is worth that effort,” he replied, beckoning me to follow him through the maze of Erebor’s corridors, which even with all this time I had not become entirely familiar with. This was a strange route also, one I’d not been through before, although I had a vague sense that we were heading somewhere near the forges. 

We came out at last into a hall of moderate size; where stood an anvil, numerous tools arranged there in orderly fashion, a lit forge whose flames even now threw their flickering light around the room, and a set of bellows beside it. There were fine suits of armour in various stages of completion resting on stands by the walls, and weapons too, and bars of various sorts of metals stacked neatly by the forge’s open maw. “The royal smithy of Erebor,” Thorin announced. “For the personal use of my family.” He looked upon it with a fond and melancholy air. “I remember sitting here as a kit, perhaps my earliest memories, watching my parents and grandparents at their work. I loved the ring of hammer upon steel, the hiss of a quenched sword, the flickering flames of the forge. I have wrought _serej_ in a hundred smithies of Men over the years, but always my heart came back to this place, to where I might craft works of real meaning, and express my soul in the true ways of my people. And now I am here, for you have given it back to me. Is it not then fitting that the first piece I made here is for you?”

“For me?” I said, warmed by his words and surprised by them too, although on reflection I really should not have been. “Oh Thorin, you needn’t have...”

“Why would I not do this for you, _uzayang?”_ Thorin replied. “It is the greatest pleasure of any dwarf to make gifts for his beloved.” So saying, he drew me over to a stand near the forge which was draped over by a heavy cloth. A flick of his wrist pulled it away, and I gazed with awe at what he had made for me. 

It was a full suit of armour, steel with a dark patina over it and inlaid with delicate patterns in what might either be silver or mithril. The torso was covered by a kind of scale mail made of angular plates in the dwarvish style, with their points facing the sky. Articulated plate covered arms, legs and neck, and I saw that there were certain similarities with the ghostly armour that the Nazgûl wore, particularly the gauntlets with their clawed fingertips. So that was why he had been asking their advice! Thorin had even thought to leave the boots without soles, so that they would merely cover the tops of my feet and not break that connection with the earth that was so natural to hobbits. But for all this magnificence, as my gaze roved over it all, what caught my attention the most was the crown. It was a circlet notched in peaks and troughs, and arching back from the brow were four great horns that mimicked those of a dragon. It gleamed in the light of the fire, throwing off light when the rest of it seemed to instead absorb. 

“Thorin,” I said, my voice soft in awe. “It’s magnificent. But surely I am not worthy of such a gift, especially not of a crown.”

“You are my One,” Thorin said, taking up my hand and clasping it close to his chest. “You and I shall rule Erebor together, and should not my husband bear the marks of his rank? Should he not be as glorious to others as he is to me?”

“Well when you put it like that,” I replied, blushing. “I can hardly refuse can I, when you say such nice things? But,” I added, casting my eyes back over the whole and noticing something, “this isn’t just armour is it? I can feel magic in there.”

“The craft of the dwarves, when we put our hearts into it,” Thorin replied. “I was taught the forge-songs since I could first draw breath to sing them, and even passing so long without the opportunity to use them, I forgot none of it.”

I ran my hand gently over the dark metal, feeling the slightest lines of engraved runes beneath my fingertips. “Strength, protection,” I muttered under my breath, feeling it out with the Ring’s senses. “Flame’s heat and power. Bones of the earth. This is... this is perfection.”

Thorin smiled, and bent to kiss me. I returned it, soft at first but quickly growing more heated with the play of tongues and our hands roving over each other. It might have progressed further, but Thorin drew back with a gasp, and a rueful smile. 

“I would make love to you,” he said, “but I will wait for that, for first I would see you in the armour I have made for you. There will be time for bed-play soon. Very soon.”

“Ah, you wish me to put on this armour so you can then strip me out of it!” I said, laughing. “Well, far be it for me to refuse!” 

I quickly cast aside my clothing, even setting aside with care the beautiful mithril shirt, letting his eyes fall hungrily upon me. Thorin helped me into the armour, his hands gentle and skilful, and the air seemed to crackle with tension and lust between us, made only the more charged by the spells forged in the metal that soon wound themselves around me. 

This, yes, this was as good as any ceremony or hand-fasting to seal our love between us. The only doubt I felt in that moment was how I could do anything as wonderful in return as my own part of it. But that I felt sure would come to me with time. For now we loved each other, and who could ask for anything more than that?

\----

“So tell us, when is the marriage ceremony?” Bofur cried out to me, grinning, the next day when he saw me wearing the crown about at Thorin’s request. 

“And what makes you think you’re getting an invitation?” I replied, returning his smile. He clutched his chest as though mortally wounded. 

“You’d deny your bosom friends the chance to see the happiest day of your and our King’s lives?” he replied. “You are cruel indeed Bilbo Baggins, King-To-Be!” 

I did not let my expression change, but my joy still soured somewhat at hearing myself called cruel. The accusations of the Elvenking were too fresh in my mind for that. Still, Bofur had not meant to cause pain by his words; had not even known that his choice was not the best. I left him to his business, which was still something to do with the mines, the technicalities of which were rather beyond me. 

It was to the Nazgûl I went next, wishing to thank them for their input in helping Thorin craft his kingly gift to me. They were keeping watch at the Gate, patient as the dead – which of course they were. 

“Has there been any sign of movement?” I asked them, approaching. 

“None closer than the outskirts of their camp,” Khamûl replied, “The Ravens tell of their busy workings, of the continuing muster of forces arriving from the forest to the west, and a greater and greater number of their massive bows being fastened to the earth, but as of yet they have made no sally.”

“The siege will hold then,” I said. “At least until Dain arrives.”

Adunaphel, who had been sitting quiet as her name, staring out at the ruins of Dale far below, turned her head to me. “A thought, master,” she said. 

“I’d welcome any ideas,” I replied. “We’ve few enough of them.”

“You sent Angmar away for good reason,” she said. “But he was our greatest General and sorcerer.”

“You want me to call him back.” I did not much like the idea. Angmar had been untrustworthy, working against me, and I hardly thought a few months even trapped in the place he hated most would have persuaded him that I was worth obeying. 

“He could be useful,” she said. I looked at Khamûl, seeking his thoughts. 

“Perhaps,” he said, after some consideration. “If you maintain your desire to avoid killing, then we must be clever, and he is nothing if not clever.”

“If I do call him back, it will not be to stay, and it may not be for long,” I told them. “I do appreciate your point. It would be foolish of me to ignore the advantages.”

“But he was a traitor,” Khamûl finished for me, shrugging philosophically. 

“I’ll think about it,” I said, and headed off again. I would also need to think, if he _did_ prove to be helpful, about what I would say to the Company about his return, in case he chose to be overly free with his tongue. My excuses would not hold up if he chose to be difficult.

From the Gate I went next to the great Forge-Hall, where the massive bulk of Smaug lay curled in twisting lengths around the ten crucibles in which the eggs sat snugly, his own heat keeping the room at a sweltering temperature. I picked my way around him towards his head, where he lazily opened one huge eye to look at me. 

“A pretty crown that sits your head,” he rumbled. “I hope it shall remind you of the oath you swore to me.” 

“I’ll worry about that when this is over,” I replied. “How are the eggs? Are they close to hatching?”

“Do you not feel them?” Smaug replied. “The beat of their hearts in the stone? Soon I shall light these fires, melt metal and crack shell. In the furnace, my kin shall be reborn.”

He was right; if I thought about it, if I reached out with that part of me, like reaching out another, invisible, set of hands, I could feel them moving, curling and twisting themselves comfortably underneath the outer coating of stone. They were still serpentine for now, formless as ribbons or banners of flame, congealed song. There was a sense of anticipation, of eagerness. 

“It has been so long for them,” Smaug said. “Waiting outside of the world. Who would wish to wait?” He raised his head, the fires in his throat pulsing from between his scales. “ _I_ do not wish to wait.” His jaws gaped, and the torrent burst forth. I felt its heat, not as I once would have, but as power, as a strong gale that set my hair fluttering as it passed. Beneath the crucibles, long-dead coals burst into life again. Flame roared, and a flick of the dragon’s tail pushed down the lever to a mechanism that started the great water-wheels turning, the whole system clanking into motion with a groan, buckets of ore moving, massive bellows forcing in air to turn the forge-fires blue-hot. 

Smaug settled himself down again, pleasure rumbling in the depths of his throat like the purring of a cat. “I shall call you when the first egg hatches,” he told me, closing his eyes again. “It will not be long now.”

\----

In the end it was not necessary for Smaug to call me because I felt it through the bones of the mountain itself. The crack of stone sounded in my ears as though it was at my shoulder, and I turned and ran for the Forge-Hall, knowing instinctively what it meant. My feet raced with surety through corridors and over rail-less bridges until the entrance was before me, and I burst through with my heart racing not from the speed but from my excitement. Smaug’s neck rose in a graceful arc above, his head poised over one of the crucibles, spitting sparks and with strange lights and colours dancing in the shimmering air over the molten metal. Something moved within, glimpsed only in parts, like a fish jumping in a river. 

And then the dragon surfaced, throwing liquid gold and iron in a hot rain to splatter on the stone floor and against the flanks of his kin. It slid, glowing white, over the lip of the crucible with serpentine grace, its eyes and mouth dark like red coals, blinking. 

“ _Arda!_ ” It exclaimed, voice fluting and musical compared to Smaug’s bass rumble. “Oh, I feel its fires, I feel the strong earth, I feel...” It craned its neck upwards. “Smaug! It is _good_ to see you again!”

“Tyelcanár,” Smaug replied, curling his mouth in a smile without teeth. “I might have expected you would be the first.”

“And the other... there he is,” the reborn Maia turned to look at me, cocking its head to the side with curiosity. “That is a small form it is wearing. One of Aüle’s Ururauta?”

“Not... exactly.” I said.

“More a borrowed Ururauta,” Smaug said, sounding amused. “He’s mortal, but you will notice how much of Mairon is sitting in that Ring upon his finger.”

“Why, how curious?” Tyelcanár said. “But he sung us back, didn’t he?”

“ _He_ certainly did,” I told him – or perhaps her, I was not yet sure. I felt the Ring considering this question in the back of my head. _Tyelcanár, Tyelcanár, I recall. Preferred the masculine pronoun._ I thanked it mentally for the answer.

“Then I do not think you can call yourself just mortal anymore,” the dragon said, looking earnest. He had begun to cool, or perhaps solidify, so that scales and claws and other features could be made out. He had a paler hide than Smaug, a grey between iron and silver, or perhaps white gold. I decided to take his words as a compliment. “Who else is here? Do we know yet?”

“I know whom we sung,” Smaug replied. “Ancalagon the Black, Glaurung the Great, Raumo, Nappa, Heren, Calarus, Angatúrë, Ondolissë, and Turcosú who rebirthed me. When they will come forth is harder to predict.”

“So many,” Tyelcanár said. “Is it to be war?”

“I might have done it merely as the right thing to do,” I said. The dragonet turned a sceptical eye upon me, which I could hardly blame him for. I might have believed that a year ago, but I’d seen enough of the peoples of Arda to be more suspicious now. “We are in a bit of trouble,” I admitted. “Although that wasn’t precisely the reason for it.”

“Oh, elvish trouble I imagine,” Tyelcanár said, sighing. “It always seems to be. They’re a most troublesome race.”

“They are laying siege to the mountain,” I explained.

“What, right now!” the dragonet exclaimed. “Smaug, that is intolerable! We should...”

“Still wet from the egg?” Smaug asked.

“The situation is in hand,” I said, “or at least, we have a plan. No, what Smaug suggested to me – what he intimated you might help with – comes afterwards. It’s to do with, well, it’s to do with the whole of Middle-Earth, really.”

“Still, elves,” Tyelcanár grumbled, then added, “and don’t I smell... this is a _dwarvish_ mountain, isn’t it?”

“Allies, somewhat regrettably,” Smaug told him. “Come, whilst you’re settling in I shall explain. I can see I shall have to repeat myself,” he muttered, gazing over the other nine eggs in their metal baths. 

“It was nice to meet you,” I told Tyelcanár, deciding to leave the dragons in peace for the moment. Anyway I needed to let the Company know about this recent development. 

“Likewise, likewise,” the dragonet replied, yawning suddenly and looking surprised at himself. 

And the Nazgûl too, I thought as I left. I had made a decision about Angmar. We might need his expertise, despite my distaste. I was going to call him back, and the rest of the Nine would need to know about it. 

\----

Summoning Angmar was not, in the end, particularly difficult, nor a particularly impressive piece of spell-work. I simply called with the voice of the Ring, called along the link that bound him under my power, and he came, tugged to me as swift as the wind and as insubstantial as smoke. He stood before me, the half-circle of his kin watchful at my back, and slowly inclined his head in a grudging bow. 

I made no excuses for why I had brought him back to my side before his punishment was over, and he did not ask for any. Instead I simply told him of our situation here, and he grasped my reasoning immediately. 

“You are wise to make use of me,” he said. He did not sneer as he had before, but neither did he have the respect of the others of the Nine. Perhaps my lesson had taught him something, but if so it was with a long way left to go. “Particularly when the foes that lie before you are not the only ones that you should be concerned with.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him. “How do you know?”

“I had a visitor in the High Fells,” Angmar replied. “Our old master, Mairon. He has been driven from Dol Guldur.” He sounded disapproving. I felt a ripple of curiosity coming from the other Nazgûl. “The White Council came for their missing wizard,” Angmar explained. “The Grey Istari who fell into the trap Mairon set. He told me much, seeing me trapped there, for he did not think I might be summoned back. _He_ would not have let me loose so easily.”

“You won’t be free forever,” I told him testily. “Only as long as you’re useful. It seems you have a lot to tell us though. So Mairon is around – I imagine he wants the One back.”

“He knows you have bound it to you,” Angmar replied. “But your mastery of it is yet young. He is confident he could win it back, if given the opportunity, and his intention is to create one. An army of orcs was massed in the forest and left before the White Council struck. Others have been summoned from Gundabad and Moria. They converge upon the mountain; to kill your dwarf allies and leave you open to a strike by his fell power.”

This was bad news indeed. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with just the elves of Mirkwood! “What about the White Council and Gandalf?” I asked, sure now that this must have been the secret business that the old wizard had needed to deal with. “Where did they go afterwards, did Mairon know?”

“North, to come here,” Angmar told me. That made sense. Gandalf had always meant to help us take back Erebor. I supposed it could not be that long until he and the others arrived. I did not know who else was on this White Council though, for I had not seen them properly during our time in Rivendell. Lord Elrond was one of them, and there was at least one other wizard, but their names and number remained a mystery. 

“Will you help us hold out here?” I demanded of the wraith. “I could order you, but I know how much damage you could do by finding loopholes in my words.” 

“Against elves and wizards my strength is yours,” he replied. “Against Mairon, when he comes, I stand aside.” 

I nodded. “That will have to do.”

\----

I had to know when Gandalf would arrive, if in fact he was not here already, and this meant another visit to the camp by the Long Lake. I said as much to Thorin, who looked at me with worry and insisted I wear the armour that he had crafted for me. I appreciated the necessity of it. The elves were not exactly a match for my magic as things stood, but nor were they unfamiliar with the singing of spells, and if they were able to bring me forth from the shadow realm so that I could be seen, I would be thankful for the protection. 

The armour itself surprised me with its silence; no creak of leather or clash of metal against metal. The plates moved against each other smoothly and any noise was swallowed up by the runes Thorin had carved upon them. I trotted down the path at some speed, heedless of the well-distributed weight that sat reassuring upon my shoulders, round my chest and hips. I was strong and tireless from the power of the Ring, and felt as though I could have run all day. 

When I reached the camp it did not look as busy as it had before, but it was far larger. The Men of the Lake had begun to muster, and their tents, smaller and less fine that those of the elves, had been erected in lines upon the outskirts. Rows of massive, wicked bows raised their heads here and there, their crews seated around them, waiting for the merest hint of a wing. I headed for the tent of Legolas Thranduilion again, knowing that of anyone here he was the most likely to have had news of Gandalf. 

Four horses were tied up outside when I found it, grazing on now-sparse grass that had been trodden by many feet. Next to them I saw, with a shock of recognition, a familiar sled with a score of rabbits in the traces, currently huddled up together in a protective heap, their beady eyes watchful and darting in all directions. Radagast the Brown. I couldn’t imagine him as a member of the White Council but then, Gandalf had said there were not many wizards in the world. It would not be all that surprising if he was not entirely as he had appeared. 

Something was prickling at my senses. Something that the Ring was aware of, and puzzled by. I became aware of a strange tug, a light and slender link between it and something within the tent. It was that same bond which I had felt months ago, a little like those which joined the One to the Nine and the Seven, but far more tremulous. I frowned. Here was a mystery. Perhaps it was something that had been brought from Dol Guldur? 

I needed to know more. And I needed to know what was being said of me, if Legolas had given my name, and what Gandalf might think of that. I worried, with reason, that he might take the side of the elves and work against us, and I had no wish to fight him. He had helped the Company greatly on our journey to Erebor, and it would seem ill to repay such a debt with violence. 

I crept carefully into the tent, keeping myself concealed in the realm of shadows, listening intently. 

Within, I immediately saw a group of figures, some of whom I recognised; Gandalf of course, and the eccentric wizard Radagast, as well as the elves Legolas, Elrond, and Tauriel. Of those I did not know, one was an old man in white robes with a black staff – no doubt the third wizard. The other was another elf, beautiful and serene. I had walked into the middle of a conversation, and although I had missed a great part of it, it was still simple enough to pick up the thread of their topic, which was of course the mountain.

“The dragon is a foul creature and a fell ally, even without the power of the One Ring,” Gandalf was saying, looking perturbed. 

“But how came it to be found?” Lord Elrond asked. “It has been lost for nigh on three thousand years without a trace!”

“That is a question to which I would dearly like to know the answer,” the wizard in white said. “Long have I searched for any mention or rumour of the Ring, and heard nothing.” Looking at him more closely, it was then I perceived that he was the source of the faint link leading to the One. It was very curious. Something he carried called out to the Ring, something small and not without its own power. It was a mere shadow of any of the Rings which Mairon had made, but I could sense it was still dangerous. 

“I had meant to be here weeks ago,” Gandalf said. “If so I might have faced this creature before it corrupted Thorin and the others.” He looked very worn then, more like an old man than I had ever seen him. “You said it gave its name?”

“Yes,” King Legolas said, and the venom had not diminished from his words. “But it was twisted so that it could not be made out – something dark and evil, tainted by the Black Speech.” This was rather curious. It had seemed clear enough to me. Was this some side effect of the Ring? I knew it disapproved of my lack of the dignity it thought its wielder should have, and my name certainly was not as imposing as ‘Sauron’ or ‘Mairon’.

“I have seen its guise when it walks abroad,” Tauriel added. “It takes the appearance of a small creature, as though a slender, beardless dwarf, but it casts a great shadow and bends the air around it. Its eyes glow like fire. It speaks softly, and pretends itself reasonable and kind. I fear it has cast doubt into the hearts of the Lakemen and weakened their resolve to resist its promises.” 

I thought Thorin or others of the Company would have mentioned something like that if it were true! But was this simply further evidence of a thing the Ring itself might be doing? Something that was seen only by those who did not know me? I sent a subtle inquiry towards it, curled quiescent but watchful in the back of my mind.

 _Elves see what it is they wish to see,_ the Ring told me scornfully. _They sense my power, and fear it, and they see the manifestation of their fear._ This, I thought, was not entirely a satisfactory explanation, but I could question it no further else lose the thread of the conversation.

“The weakness of Men is proven again,” Legolas was saying. “They have answered the muster, but I do not trust to their strength in battle.”

“There are some who might surprise you,” Gandalf replied to him, but then stopped, noticing that the other wizard, the one in white – he had mentioned his name, long months before, but I could not remember it – seemed to be looking around the tent with an air of suspicion. I began to worry that my presence might have been sensed. 

It had been. But I had no time to leave. The black staff came up and then hit the ground as the Istari chanted the words of a song-spell. White light rippled outwards and pulled me away from the world of shadows, casting away my invisibility and laying me bare for all to see. Before I could speak swords were drawn, bows were nocked, and power began to ripple in the air as it was summoned close to hand. 

Gandalf’s eyes were fixed upon me. His face was a mask of horror. He recognised me, for whatever the white wizard had done seemed to have dispelled the masking effect of the Ring, and I saw his lips shape my name. I am sure he would have chosen to speak first, but that chance was taken away from him and from me. The rest of the White Council saw something evil, something fierce, and they attacked. 

Tauriel’s arrow was easily enough deflected, but the blast of force from the white wizard was less so. The Ring awoke, alarmed, and its power with it, opening up to me and giving me all its strength. Borrowed instincts – although with each time I had to fight like this they were becoming more my own – let me raise my hands to part the spell rushing towards me, and then I had more to worry about. Legolas Thranduilion had thrown caution to the winds and now dove for me, his father’s sword flashing. He was fast, as swift as the wind, but so was I. The first blow I dodged, giving me time to draw Eldanqualë, the blade which had killed so many of his kin. 

It was a fight for my life, and I knew it. But the one advantage of the elven-king’s furious attack was that it prevented the others from bringing their full might to bear. Legolas had no thought for co-operation, did not he pause or let up to allow Elrond – similarly armed with an ancient, spell-woven blade – to properly join him. But for all his rage I did not want to kill him. He was in pain, mourning his father, and as of yet he had not hurt anyone under my protection. I fought him defensively, moving backwards towards the flap of the tent, hoping to find a chance for retreat. I felt the tingle of magic in the air around me, the White Council unable to strike so now working indirectly, hoping to hinder and slow me. The Ring sparked with fire, burning away the spells before they had a chance to bind. 

And then I was outside. Guards gaped, and then one reached for a horn at his side and blew it until the very air rang. Shouts and cries were raised. I was very aware that an entire army lay ranged about me, and it would not be easy to escape them. Still Legolas Thranduilion attacked, whirling his sword in guarding arcs and raining down blows upon me. I blocked, and carefully gave ground. Elves were running towards our battle, and I knew that bows must be bent upon me, arrows awaiting the slightest opportunity. 

Then a wrathful roar rent the skies. It was enough to stop combat for a moment whilst we all looked up, the elves seeking a new enemy, myself worried about what I might see. From out of the clear blue sky a dark shape plummeted, and then wings snapped open as Tyelcanár pulled out of his dive, a silhouette against the sun, and a torrent of fire gushed forth from his gaping mouth. My heart sank, despite this promise of reinforcement; I knew what dangers lay about the camp for him. 

A pallid shield of magic shivered into being above us, cast by the elven Lady, whose hand shone with a source of power that I felt I ought to recognise. The flames were turned back as though hitting something solid, and Tyelcanár wheeled away for another pass. Shouts and signals were thrown between the watching troops of Mirkwood, and soldiers ran for their wicked bows. And I could do nothing to prevent what I knew would happen, for once again I was pressed hard by Legolas Thranduilion’s attacks, and it was all I could do to fend him off. He was only barely less skilled than his father, and he had the strength of rage. I was beginning to fear I would have to kill him to stop him. 

I left off the defence and moved into a pattern of attack. If I could wound him enough to halt him even for a moment, I could run and return to the realm of shadows, calling Tyelcanár to flee with me back to the mountain. But even now the fear settled heavy as iron into my stomach, the sure knowledge of a fate which some part of me knew I would be unable to stop. 

Again came the dragon’s screech. Again the flicker of flames caught in the peripheries of my vision. And then a bellowing roar that was as much pain as rage. I could not turn my eyes; I reached out with other, Ring-born senses. I felt the life-force of the Maia, white-hot, glorious, steel-willed and defiant. I felt his agony as a bolt as tall as a man pierced his wing and he fell, pulled to the ground. I felt his strength as he thrashed with tooth and claw and tail, smashing elves to the ground with power his still-small body belied. Tyelcanár was fire unbowed, but he was made young again where his mind expected age and size to match Smaug’s, and the elves crowded him with long pikes and spears and peppered arrows at tender places of eyes and mouth. 

I saw, momentarily, two worlds overlaid with one another, Legolas before me, ceaseless and untiring, and his army pressing their advantage. I saw through the dragon’s eyes, and knew I was too late. 

The Maia’s dying scream was a jet of flames searing up into the sky; it was an earthquake; it was doom, and I screamed alongside him and the Ring joined me. The Elven King was before me and Tyelcanár’s blood was on his hands. He had brought this army here to my door, forced us to defend ourselves. I saw the moment of distraction in his eyes as the pillar of flame rose up and fell back and I took it. Eldanqualë, Terror and Slayer of Elves, flashed in the sun and took his sword from him, and his hand with it. 

Blood splattered my face. He cried out, and a silence borne of shock spread out like the impact of some mighty blow from the circle of space where we fought. I summoned more power, the Ring gave gladly, and I thrust my hands out before me in a wave of force, sending Legolas and the White Council stumbling back a few steps. It was enough. I ran for the mountain. 

Tyelcanár’s death, you see, could not pass unnoticed. If Smaug had been aware of his sally before he would have stopped it, but now he knew, now the horror had been presented to him as an unstoppable, incontrovertible fact and he was roused to incandescent fury. I could feel him coming, worming his massive bulk up through the halls and passageways of Erebor. I could feel the emotions of the Nine, who had heard that death-knell also. I could feel Thorin’s confusion through the link to the Ring of Durin, for he could not fail to notice the wrath to which Smaug had been stirred.

If I could make it out of the camp, if I could get to them before they made this attack, then I might yet save them. Joining battle now without plan or preparation could only be the death and destruction of all we had worked towards; the Kingdom under the Mountain, the Singing of the Dragons, my plans for the future of Middle-Earth... it would perish beneath the blade, and take the armies of Men and Elves with it. What little remained would be slaughtered when the orcs came and Mairon made his move. It would be a disaster, all of it because I ventured too close to the Istari and because of the impetuousness of a newborn dragon. 

The White Council was fast on my heels despite being caught off their guard by my unexpected flight and turn of speed. The air around me grew thick and heavy with magic so that I could taste it in the back of my throat, alternately sharp and over-sweet. In the sight of my mind the Istari were pale stars shining through dark waters, their true powers very far away and fettered by something yet even greater. In this at least I was lucky, for although I held the borrowed strength of their kin, I would not have been able to face them as they truly were.

The white wizard was calling up a spell, a bolt of death dancing and growing in the curl of his palm, fed by some source of congealed power upon one finger. It was a Ring, I realised, but not one that Mairon had forged. But there was still a connection there, a fellowship of nature and purpose, something akin in their making that had allowed a link to grow up between them and though I could not control that Ring or direct the actions of it or its holder, that link was a weakness I could use. I sent a blow of my own sparking down that line to clash against the growing energies and dissipate them. The Istari’s lips formed an oath. 

I dashed through the camp at the greatest speed I could muster, still limited in some ways by my lack of height despite the Ring’s abilities. It was speed enough to let the soldiers see me and begin to react, but not slow enough for them to strike. Everything was in utter chaos and I wove my way between startled elves whose own numbers prevented their chase. Instead they swiftly scattered to clear the path for the Council following on behind, pursuing the scent of the Ring to foil my twisting path. 

Then all of a sudden I was out of the camp, dashing past the last of the tents. I was too late.

Smaug burst forth from the mountain, shattering the barricade of the new entrance we had built up, exploding into the sky like earth-fire’s wrath itself. His roar echoed from the slopes of Erebor, sent rocks tumbling in falls of scree, made the air shiver even at such a distance. He was but a dark shape catching the sun as he curved upwards, his wings transcribing graceful, terrible arcs. The Nine and the Company were following on foot, unseen and unknown by any save myself. I shuddered, turned and faced those who had become my enemies. There was no other option now, it seemed. The Ring watched from behind my eyes, pressing as close to my mind as it could, as though it could merge our souls, as though we could be one and I with all the glory of a Maia could call down my fury upon the army before us. 

And then another horn blew. It was an elvish horn, but it did not call the same tune as when I had emerged in the middle of their camp. This was a different song, a different warning. I looked up and around, as the members of the White Council were doing, a momentary pause called as we searched for some new threat.

Dark clouds were pouring in from the west. They moved against the wind, with a swiftness that was not natural, and beneath them over the long flat plain of the dragon’s Desolation came another army, one with banners black, with cavalry on warg-back, an army from Gundabad and from the mountains. The sky cracked with thunder and the clouds were lit from within by unnatural lightning. Mairon had timed himself well. 

How had none of us seen this or sensed it? I only had to look to those clouds for the answer. They spoke a spell of unseeing, of hiding and moving concealed. No scrying or searching would have pierced those storms to the creatures that walked below. They had come upon us without warning, with both sides unprepared and in disarray. I looked upon the sight with horror and could not think of hope. 

“So the help you must have hoped for has finally arrived,” Lord Elrond said, with utter disgust. His sword was held before him in a position of guard. His armour shone in the sun. He was fresh, and strong, and had many thousands of years of experience in mastery of war and the supporting power of the rest of the Council and I? I had the Ring. I could no longer be sure it would be enough.

“No,” I replied wearily. “This is not my hand but Mairon’s.”

“You betray yourself by using that name,” the elven lady said. She had retained her calm even now, through all this. I could feel her power reaching out for growing things, and though there were none here under the aegis of the dragon, she was the oldest of any elf I had ever seen, and her eyes were dark pools of the very ocean deeps. She needed nothing but herself. 

“You think he’d let anyone else have this?” I asked, lifting my hand to show where the Ring burned, letters of fire banding it round. 

“Let him speak no more,” the wizard in white said sharply. “The words of creatures such as he are poison to the mind.”

Behind him, behind the other members of the Council arrayed against me, the camps of Elves and Men were a hive of activity as they began to organise themselves, to form up lines against the army that was even now growing closer with every moment. A sudden whine of arrows darkened the air, and lanced across the distance as only elvish bows could. Figures fell, and a dark horn blared, and with gathering speed the orcs began to charge. 

I tore my attention away. Somewhere high overhead, Smaug screamed his rage. On the road from Dale to the Long Lake the Nine and the Company arrayed for battle marched with all speed towards us, yet unknowing of what they were coming to face. That at least I could tell them through the links between the Rings of Power, and did s as quickly as I could, for I could not let my attention pass to any of this. The White Council were coming for me, and it was time again to fight.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo does a great working of magic, bluffs his heart out, and wins the day. 
> 
> Translations:  
>  _Ruthukhmuzûm_ \- the Rings  
>  _sanâzyung_ \- soulmate (lit. true love)  
>  _rakhâs_ \- orcs  
>  _ufûrz-shakh_ \- Fearful Lord

Not even the most talented bard can recount every sword-stroke or spell-word spoken and hope to hold his audience in thrall by the end of it, for the dance of a battle is not in words but in deeds, in the movements of the body and the visions of the eye that a mere tale cannot fully express. I fought because I was fighting for my life, and more than that, I was fighting for a cause. I had will and I had power and I had strength, but more importantly than any of those I had desperation, and that was what finally allowed the turning point to come. As battle raged, as fire swept down from the sky onto elves and orcs and men alike, as elven bolt-throwers cast their massive arrows, as from somewhere came the war-cries of the dwarves from what sounded more than just twelve throats, I called for power, reached for it, let the Ring pour it into me and well out in puissant waves. I summoned magic and then to my surprise, and even that of the Ring, something outside of me and it answered my call. The blood of the earth. I had not looked for it so far from the mountain, neither of us had, and yet here it was, a whisper beneath rock, an ancient memory and a sense of potential. I felt the land around me as though it were part of me, a mere extension of my body, and when I stretched, it obeyed my will. 

The earth cracked and groaned. It shook, and the force sent each and every creature to their knees. A great rent opened up in front of me, propelling me away from the Council, away from Elrond and the skill of his flashing blade. Their magic might yet have still touched me despite this distance, but I had already proven myself against that. Where the armies fought smoke suddenly billowed, and fires belched from underfoot with the slow crawl of stone recalling a time when it covered the land like a steaming sea. Orcs bellowed in fear. Even the dark and ferocious clouds seemed to pause and retreat a little. 

From the earth I could feel where metal touched the ground, and flinging out my hands I wrenched the anchors of the great bows free from their moorings and summoned the rock to upend them, to rise like a wave and crush them into uselessness. Everywhere the soil and sward rucked up like a rug pushed out of place as I coaxed the cracks to grow, separating groups of soldiers from one another over chasms too steep and wide to cross even had any still been focussed on fighting and not the display of power happening before them. 

I let my hands fall, panting for breath, my feet planted and only the strength I was drawing up through them from the ground preventing me from collapsing.

I became aware of the presence of the Nine. They were standing behind me, their blades out and darkened by wet blood. Here and there bodies lay, though not so many as those which even now I could feel pressing on the soil away where the main part of the fighting had been. The Nazgûl had fought their way through to me, and now faced the White Council across the empty gap of stone, ready to bolster me if they called more magic again. But for now the Istari and the elven Lord and Lady were recovering from the sheer magnitude of the working I had made. I had time to take stock, to array the battlefield and see how things stood.

The Dwarven battle-cries I had heard had not been from the Company alone. Many other dwarves had joined them and must have numbered hundreds or more. They had to be the aid King Dain had promised us, come at just the right time. Later I would learn that they had come across orcish scouts during their march and so found out about the great army coming our way. Knowing victory against such numbers to be impossible with his current force, Dain had ordered his band to make for Erebor at haste to warn us and lend his strength where it might serve to tip the balance. Indeed if not for him the fate of the Company might have been quite different. 

With a massive, heavy thump, Smaug landed nearby. His wings were pierced through in several places by great arrows, but the chains that dangled beneath were melted quite through and despite that flying must have caused him great pain, in his anger he did not seem to have paid it any mind. 

“You have shattered their defences against me,” he said, his voice like thunder, and flames flickering in his throat. “They shall all burn for what they have done.”

I winced. I felt heart-sick already from what this had come to; from all this needless death. I blamed myself; if I had been more careful I would not have been seen, and could have helped to protect Tyelcanár long enough to persuade him back to the mountain. Instead he was dead, returned to that place just beyond the world, and so were so many elves, and Dain’s dwarves, and even orcs – though I had no love lost for them. Still I wished them no ill will if only they would stay in their homes, and it was Mairon’s malice that had brought them forth, not any particular desire of their own to shed our blood. Well. Old grievances perhaps, but every race had their grievances against the others and I was heartily fed up of them. 

“Wait,” I told Smaug quickly. 

“Wait for _what?_ ” he said, but held back. The great barrel of his chest heaved with his breath; I suspected he was more worn than he would wish anyone to know. It was impossible for me to tell how long the battle had raged – I had quite lost track of time – but he had not had cause for such exertion for over a hundred years. 

“For me to talk to _them,_ ” I replied, nodding to the members of the White Council who had regained their feet and were watching us warily from across the divide. 

I walked towards them, getting as close as was possible, crossing my arms over my chest to show I was not about to cast any great magics. “I want to talk to Gandalf,” I called out. 

They conferred a moment, and then the others stood aside so that Gandalf the Grey could come forward. He looked worn and filled with sorrow, leaning heavily on his staff as he approached me. We faced one another, meters apart, but still just close enough to speak without having to shout. 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said. “I am sorry for what has been done to you. For what I was too blind to see. If any of the brave hobbit I once knew remains, then I apologise to him from the bottom of my heart.”

“Gandalf, I’m still _me_ ,” I said, with a certain amount of exasperation. “You can’t have been told the whole story of what’s happened, for clearly there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I am not some kind of Dark Lord. I’m not evil, and I don’t know why you’re acting as though I’ve _died._ Let’s talk about all this sensibly and perhaps we can all get out of this without any further loss of life.”

“Would that I could believe it,” Gandalf said, looking if possible even more weary. “But I know now what you carry; what you must have found far beneath the Misty Mountains. Perhaps you are still yourself and it has allowed you to believe you control it, but no mortal creature on this earth could master that Ring. Even I, if I managed it, would be utterly changed by it. It casts a darkness over everything it touches.”

“Haven’t you told me before that hobbits are surprising creatures?” I said. “I mastered the Ring, and I have been using it to help our Quest! When Thranduil captured Thorin and tried to kill the rest of the Company, I rescued them and saw to it they got the justice that no-one else in Middle-Earth seemed willing to see done! I talked to Smaug and persuaded him to make a pact with the dwarves! Erebor is theirs again! Everything would have been fine if not for the armies that decided to camp out on our doorstep!”

Gandalf momentarily closed his eyes, looking pained. I wished he would believe me. I wished he would look past what Mairon had done with the Ring and see it for what it was; just a tool to be used for good or evil, a helpful companion that would do as it were bid. I wished he would see that peace in the present was better than war, than deaths repaying ancient deaths and debts. The Nine had I was sure once done great ills, but not of their own devising. They too were simply loyal servants. 

“And what of the Company?” he asked. “What have you done to them, and to their minds, to make them accept the presence of a dragon?”

“Nothing!” I protested, but I could see he did not believe me. Gandalf might have spoken highly of my courage and strength of heart once, but it was clear he did not believe those to be enough to master the One, and thus he would never believe me, thinking every word a lie not my own. I stared at him with a heavy heart. 

“What then?” I said. “What is it you hope to achieve here? Are you going to kill us all, all the dwarves, the Nine, Smaug, me? Do you think you can?”

“I would give anything that it not be so,” Gandalf said with great sadness. “But to allow evil this foothold... when we have just seen the first new-born Fire Drake in three thousand years... allow this, and there will be more to come. Evil will grow in strength until it covers all the lands in a second darkness and all our hopes will wither.”

“I don’t want to kill you!” I shouted. “I don’t _want_ to, but I will see it done if you won’t leave! We will win, all of you will burn, and then where will your hopes be?”

To this he made no reply, but turned and walked slowly back to the rest of the White Council. I waited, watching them carefully in case they turned to renew the attack. I could not make out their words but I could tell that they were having an argument, and allowed myself to think that perhaps they would listen to some kind of reason and retire from the field. Even if it was only to go away and plot to see me dead in some other way, that would still be better. It would give me time as well – I suspected they thought there had only been the one dragon egg, and knew nothing of the others. It was clear I was going to have to put my own plans in motion quicker than I’d thought no matter what the outcome of this day. 

Perhaps in the end it was my most recent show of force that convinced them. They were very powerful, and to be honest I was not actually all that certain that we _would_ win. There were great sorcerers amongst the Nine, but none of them were Maiar. Smaug was injured and tired. I did not know how much more was left in me – I had been holding the Council off alone for some time. But I _looked_ strong, and perhaps they still thought the orcs who even now had withdrawn out of bowshot of the elves to regroup were under my own command. The wizard in white came forth, looking haughty and proud and glaring at me.

“This is not over,” he told me. 

“It is enough for now,” I replied. He turned, white robes billowing, and he and the rest of the White Council headed back into the ruins of the elven camp. 

“That was dealt with very peaceably,” Smaug growled, clearly dissatisfied. “And what of the elves? Do you intend to let them run too?” 

“Haven’t you killed enough of them to satisfy your bloodlust?” I snapped. Having Gandalf react like that towards me had been a blow, even if in the end I hadn’t had to kill him or any of his companions. I was hardly feeling my best. 

“You have an unfortunate habit of mercy,” the dragon said. “Mercy is not how wars are won.”

“I’ll be merciful if I please,” I replied. “If you disapprove, then perhaps you should break our oath now, because I have no intentions of changing.” 

“They will return in greater force, with greater plans and devisings, with works of war, and where will your mercy be then?” 

“And I shall have time to build too,” I reminded him. I began to follow the line of the crevasse around towards the other armies. The ranks of elves had been reformed with their backs to their camp, an elegant curve facing both orcs and dwarves, with small knots of Lakemen amongst them. I saw Bard the Bowman with another group of human archers, noticeable by their homely garb to stand against the shining armour of the elves. There was movement though now, runners coming forth from between the tents and spreading some word to the assembled soldiers. Slowly, as I walked, they began to retreat. 

I wondered whether King Legolas had agreed to this command which clearly originated from the Council – if he was in fact in much shape to agree to anything. Loss of a hand certainly would not kill an elf, but the flow of blood would have weakened him, perhaps been enough with the shock of it to cause a faint. I could not imagine him as I had seen him countenancing this. Still, I was glad of it. Now I had simply to deal with the orcs, and with Mairon in whatever weakened form he might choose to appear.

Seeing this departure of one enemy from the field, Smaug must have felt all chances for immediate revenge gone. I suspected that, having landed, he was not eager or perhaps not able to take to the skies once more, and so he turned his back on the fissured wasteland I had made of the lake’s headland and stalked back towards Erebor, his head held high and his demeanour proud, admitting no weakness. The Nazgûl continued to follow me, however, and I had no wish to stop him. The dragon had done more than I might have expected from him.

We reached the dwarves before we could get to the orcs. Another great crack in the earth separated them from that last army, and they were clustered around it debating how to get across. When they saw me coming, a great susurrus of curious voices went up and very quickly a group was coming out to reach me. With great relief I saw that Thorin was amongst them, along with Fili, Kili, Dwalin and Balin. They had not survived entirely unscathed however, for an elven arrow had pierced the meat of Kili’s shoulder and his arm was thus bound up in a makeshift sling, and Fili had a deep gash across the left side of his face that had bled freely, matting his beard and trickling down the side of his neck. It had crusted over now though, and thankfully the blow had missed his eye. 

“Bilbo!” Thorin said, pulling me forward into a crushing hug as soon as I was within range. 

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” I said, feeling a heavy weight lift off at the comfort of his strong arms wrapped around me. “The rest of the Company? Are they...?”

“All well enough,” Thorin replied. “Though I cannot say what might have happened had you not forced this halt to the battle.” He gave a little laugh. “I almost cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes. To sunder the earth like this...”

“It came as something of a surprise to me as well,” I confessed. “But this is not over.”

“No,” Thorin agreed. “The elf cowards have fled, but the orcs still remain. Their numbers are great, but we are stronger.”

“Aye,” said one of the other dwarves, whom I did not know. “We are stone, and they shall break upon us like waves against the shore.” 

“Bilbo, this is Dain Ironfoot, King of the Iron Hills,” Thorin said. “King Dain, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, Master of _Ruthukhmuzûm_ , and my _sanâzyung_.”

Dain looked me over. I do not know how I appeared in that moment, what influence the Ring might be having on it, but it seemed to impress him. He himself was grey-haired and heavily muscled, the sides of his head shaved to leave a strip up the middle that was slicked up with animal fat. His armour did not have a great deal of decoration, save the runes cunningly and unobtrusively engraved upon it. If I had no now been looking for them, I doubt I would have known that they were there. 

“So, how do you intend to approach our little problem?” he said, indicating the orcish forces with a wave of his battleaxe. “Since it seems we have you to thank for this crevasse in our way, perhaps you’ll fancy closing it back up for us.”

“These orcs aren’t here on their own,” I replied. “There is another power behind them, the one which commands and motivates them. If I can deal with that, then it’s possible the orcs might leave without the need to resume battle.” 

“The elves have proven more cowardly today than these _rakhâs,_ ” Dain said. “Tis unnatural. What you say seems a good explanation, but then how will you draw it out?”

“I have the power to walk unseen by most,” I replied. “But Mairon the sorcerer _will_ see me. I think he will wish to confront me, and perhaps trick me, but I think I can return the favour.” This was not entirely true. I was exhausted, and my reserves of power that I could draw from the Ring were depleted. This would be as much a bluff as my threats to the White Council, but I had to try. I couldn’t make the earth move to my command again in such a massive way, and Smaug was no longer in the fight. The dwarves were confident, but so very few in number compared to the small sea of orcs and goblins and wargs on the open plain before us. If I did not do this, we would all be lost anyway. 

Thorin looked at me with evident worry. “This plan is dangerous,” he said. “But I know you, my stubborn hobbit, and no words of mine would keep you from it. Is there anything we might do to help you?” 

“Only keep yourselves safe,” I replied. I embraced him one last time, and kissed him with a heat and sweetness that stirred the fires of my determination and steeled my resolve to see this ended for the sake of everything I cared about. Then with reluctance we parted, and I stepped into the world of shadows with the ease of a breath. 

The Nine were watching me there, and Angmar most of all, with cruel eyes and the distain I had come to expect of him. 

“I remember our bargain,” I told him. “I don’t expect you to come with me any further, to fight your old master.”

“Perhaps you will die,” he mused. “And we shall be free to return to his side.”

That would please him, but I was not so sure, looking at the others, that the same would hold true for them. The same cruelty that Angmar lauded, and hated the lack of in me, had surely been turned upon them as much as any other servants under Mairon’s control. “And will any of you come with me?” I asked them. 

“I do not think I could raise a hand against the one who was once our master,” Khamûl said. “But I will lend you my strength at least.” Nods and murmured agreements came from the other wraiths. Angmar looked at them with scorn, but said nothing. 

“Thank you,” I replied. I could feel their sincerity through their Rings, feel them, solid and ancient and faithful. It made me feel a little better about what I was about to do. 

I had enough power left for small things, even without the Nazgûl. Reaching out my hands, I called the stone to obey my will, and a small spur of rock moved outwards from where I stood to bridge the gap. I crossed, leaving the Nine behind, but knowing that eight of them remained with me at least in spirit. Overhead the dark clouds roiled, and within them I could see strange shapes moving. I had the sudden impression of an eye, huge, lidless, all aflame, searching the field of battle for me. I made no attempt to hide from it – I had come forth to confront it. 

The armies of orcs and dwarves seemed very far away, stuck in a moment, placed out of time. Or rather, I was, called here to this reckoning by the Ring and by the Maia, weakened, but still a creature that had been unto a god. The shadows took shape in front of me, like the black and oily smoke that comes from a flame when cooking fat drops upon it. A fiery shape lurked within, watching me. 

“So small and weak,” Mairon sneered. His voice had a similar power and charm as Smaug’s, with the same crackle of fire at its heart. Was this a property that all Maiar had, or simply those of the flame? It mattered little to me. I had faced Smaug without fear, and I faced Mairon just the same. “What are you, tiny little thing?”

“I am a hobbit,” I replied. “Not that it matters. I am as much the Master of the One Ring as I am that.”

“There is only one Master of the Ring,” Mairon said. “And soon you will be screaming to me for mercy.”

The Ring itself was uncertain. I could feel it wavering, confused, recognising this old power from which it had been born, but which it had not felt in many thousands of years – such a vast stretch of time for me, but not at all for its old Master. But for all that, the Ring had not been with Mairon for so very long as that past its forging before a mortal king had rent it from his finger, taken it, lost it, and let it lie in mud and beneath water where the years and an element which was its antithesis had slowly begun to wear that old loyalty away. And now I’d won it, and bent it to my will, and what was left of Mairon now after time and the White Council had had their way with him was perhaps not so very familiar to it after all. 

_This is a trap_ , it told me, whispering into my mind. _A misdirection. Look not to what is seen, for the blow will come from elsewhere._

I would not have spotted it otherwise, and Mairon must have been counting on that. The shadows of this ghostly realm boiled and leapt behind me, stretching out fingers and tendrils to grasp and hold me, but not quickly enough. I dodged them, raised a hand and called what little strength remained from the Ring and the Nazgûl to conjure a shield against the darkness. It was golden light, the buttery gleam of Smaug’s hoard, and black hands battered against it and could not break through. Nor did the blows possess the cruel power I had feared – Mairon had been relying on surprise, and with that lost it was plain he had bluffed as much as I. Coming here at all had been a gamble, so recently beaten, and now this gamble was lost. I did not need to hold my shield up long before the shadows were melting away again, and the fiery shape of Mairon was glaring at me with startled rage and hatred. 

“Many powers have risen and fallen in the years of my defeat,” he told me. “Many have thought themselves mighty, yet time crumbles them as it does the highest mountain and I endure. Think yourself the victor for now, but know that what is mine _will_ come back to me.”

With a flash of red light he was gone, and overhead the foul and stormy clouds began to clear with abnormal swiftness. It was all so much easier than I had expected that I knew not quite what to do next. 

A little way away, the orcish army was reacting with surprise to the disappearance of their protective darkness overhead. They milled around, what must be clan chieftains or leaders of some kind shouting orders, to little purpose. Some of them had banners strapped to their rough saddles, fluttering in the cool breeze. One orc, tall and muscular, riding a grey warg with a banner of a white mountain on a black field, spurred his steed all of a sudden, riding out towards me. In the way his eyes roamed back and forth over the grass I knew he could not see me, but he was searching for something all the same. 

“Hidden Power,” he shouted in the Black Speech, the Ring translating for me as it always did. “The Chieftain of the Mountain Clans asks that you show yourself. We’d know who made the Master leave!”

He was a fearsome enough sight, this orc; blind in one eye, loops of spiked metal armour seeming half embedded in his flesh, a bear pelt on his back with its long claws coming up to cup his shoulders, and armed with a fearsome serrated sword. But compared to all I had faced, he was only one orc, and I was curious. 

“Here,” I cried, allowing myself to become visible and hoping he spoke the Common Tongue. I had not yet worked out if the Ring would allow me to speak other languages as well as understand them. 

He drew up his warg before me, dismounted, and set his weapon down. “Not a wizard then,” he said. “We know their colours. Who are you, Mighty Spirit, to make a God run?”

“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” I replied, though knowing what he heard would likely not be that, not after being warped by the Ring’s own sense of dignity. “Master of the One Ring.”

He looked to my hand; I lifted it up to let him see where the One gleamed golden, somehow making itself known even through the metal of my gauntlet. The orc made a shocked sound. 

“I am Bolg,” he said. “Son of Azog the Defiler, who was killed by a stone-burrower in that battle.” He nodded towards the dwarven army on the other side of the little canyon. “What are your orders, _ufûrz-shakh_?” 

“You’ll obey me as easily as that?” I asked him. Although I hoped it could be so simple, it seemed suspicious.

“We follow the strongest,” Bolg told me with a shrug. “So long’s they respect us. Wizards don’t, otherwise we might have done what they said after they drove the Great Shadow out of the tower. But they just want to kill us so,” he spat on the ground, “that to them.”

“For now I simply want you to go home.” I said. 

“Would rather stay and spill dwarf-blood, but alright.”

“The dwarves are moving back into Erebor under my protection,” I told him sharply. “And the dragon’s.”

This seemed to give him pause. “Well,” he said. “If they’re showing proper respect to the gods, that’s another story. Wouldn’t have thought it of the burrowers – they’re thieves, and thieves don’t learn lessons less they’re taught them. But they do say _some_ knew better, back in the old days.” He nodded to me respectfully, and leapt back onto his warg with surprising grace. “The clans’ll break the muster. But we’ll come when you call, _ufûrz-shakh_.” 

And so saying he rode off, back to the hoard, barking commands to the other chiefs. Slowly the army turned and began to march away the way they had come, leaving me thankful and just beginning to feel the depths of my exhaustion. 

\----

I wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week – to sleep with a genuine need for it that I hadn’t truly had since mastering the Ring. But of course before that could happen there were other things that had to be done. Dain Ironfoot and his dwarves were welcomed into our halls, and after some initial hesitancy, Dain had declared that he had come too far and fought too hard to be afraid of any dragon, so that none of his warriors could refuse to enter without being shamed. Not that they need have worried – Smaug himself was taking his own rest, curled up in the foundry with the nine remaining eggs, recovering his strength. 

We might not have had the stocks of food appropriate to celebrate our victory and our guests, but at least the surroundings helped to make up for that. Not many of Dain’s dwarves were old enough to have memories of Erebor, and for those that were those memories had faded with the passing of the years. Erebor retaken, lit by the natural glow of strange rocks and by clean-burning oil, was something magnificent to behold. 

Many were the questions Dain had for us of the journey that had led us to the mountain, of our deal with Smaug, and the days leading up to the final battle. Answering them meant Thorin and I did not have a chance to slip away until very late, when talk at the tables was beginning to die down, and we were not the only ones leaving for our beds. However we were soon curled up close together beneath the furs in Thorin’s chambers, too tired for anything save our well-deserved slumber. 

The next day I woke late, feeling much refreshed. I left Thorin still dreaming and went to find the Nine, knowing I still had to deal with Angmar. His punishment had merely been delayed, for he was not yet willing to hold from acting against me, and thus my lesson was yet unlearned. I found them holding guard by the main gate, its stones thrown down by Smaug in his rush to avenge Tyelcanár’s death. The winter sun was just beginning to edge its way over the horizon, painting the bottom of clouds in gold. 

“Good morning, lord,” Khamûl greeted me. “It seems the danger is past.”

“For now,” I replied, looking around for Angmar. He stood off to one side, still one of the Nine, but set apart by his steadfast loyalty to Mairon. I approached him, and he turned to face me as stoic as ever. “You know what comes next,” I told him. 

“Return to my exile,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “Yet I am surprised your _mercy_ will permit it of you.”

“Don’t mistake mercy for foolishness,” I said. “Anyway this is as merciful as your actions have allowed me to be.”

“You still have much to prove,” he sneered. He might not have meant it as useful advice, but it was true despite that. I knew that to fulfil my promise to Smaug and to myself I would have to do much, and not all of it I would be happy with. But for my vision of what could be, of a Middle-Earth free from war, that had moved past old and petty tribal rivalries, it would all be worth it. 

Reaching out through the connection of the One Ring to his of the Nine I brought my will to bear, and commanded him away, back to his lonely grave. 

\----

With all the extra hands that Dain had brought, it did not take long to rebuild the Great Gate back to its long-lost glory, not to mention the greater effort that could now be paid to the cleaning out of the old rooms and residences of the city beneath the mountain, and the surveying of the mines. Thorin had his own duties, spending much time with Balin, Dain, and Dain’s own captains and advisors talking of treaties, trade and the potential immigration of dwarves into Erebor. Since Smaug was still slumbering, and none of the other eggs looked to hatch in the next few days, I had the task of venturing once more down to Laketown, to see how things sat with those Men. 

Laketown itself looked little changed, and as the technical victor, and with a great part of my strength returned to me, I came this time over the bridge to the front gate, walking for all to see, with a guard of two Nazgûl behind me. 

“I have come to speak to the Master,” I called up to the watchman. “You know who I am.”

I saw a messenger run for the streets, and waited patiently for his return, with whomever was chosen to risk the danger they must suppose my presence to pose. I was not, then, very surprised when Bard the Bowman stepped out from the postern gate and came towards me. 

“Bard,” I said. “I am glad to see you survived.”

“I suppose you have come for a formal surrender,” he replied, looking weary. 

“You could see it that way,” I said. “But I’d prefer to look at it as arranging the terms of peace between us.”

“Many good men died in that battle,” Bard said. “We weren’t trained, we weren’t _soldiers_. None of us had ever fought an orc before.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I replied. “You might not be inclined to believe it, but I did not call those orcs there. I would rather it had never come to battle at all.”

Bard laughed; an unpleasant sound without mirth. “You weren’t the one that held a sword to the Master’s throat and ordered town guards onto a battlefield. No, it was our supposed _allies_ who did that. Is that the ‘good of Middle-Earth’ elves claim to stand for?”

“Neither I or King Thorin want to see any more of your people slain. We want what we always have; peace. Prosperity. Trade. More dwarves will be coming to the mountain, and they’ll need to eat. We have gold and gems and iron goods to trade for what we need. We might have won a battle, but we’re not asking for tribute.”

“So much for the warnings of the elves!” Bard said. “ _They’ve_ done more harm to us than you have. With those dwarves who’ve joined you, you could do anything to us you wanted, and that’s not even mentioning the dragon! The elves couldn’t bring _him_ down, and they had more than just one Black Arrow!”

“Then you’ll take me in to speak to the Master?” I asked. 

“I have no doubt he’ll agree to whatever you want,” Bard replied bitterly, and let us into the town.

\----

With a new treaty and trade agreement drawn up with Laketown, and Dain and Thorin finished their own talks, it was time for Dain to return to the Iron Mountains. 

“Erebor is open to any of your people who want to come here,” Thorin told him, clasping his hand King to King before the Great Gate. “The mines will reopen, all the old treaties will be drawn up anew, and we shall rebuild.”

“I cannot promise many will want to live so close to a dragon,” Dain replied. “But I shall be no obstacle to those whose hearts draw them here. It is a rare thing indeed that an old stronghold of the dwarves becomes ours once more. I never thought to see it.”

“May the Ravens fly swiftly between us,” Thorin said. “May your beard grow long and your axes bite deep.”

“And the same to you, cousin.” With that, Dain and his five hundred (albeit slightly fewer now in number than when they arrived) left for the long march back to the Iron Hills. 

“What now?” I asked Thorin as we watched them leave, sunlight flashing on armour and axes. 

“Now we wait for my sister,” Thorin said. “She is the last of my family yet living; once she is here, we shall be married.”

I felt a great happiness sweep through me, filling me up like golden honey. It was not that I needed any ceremony as a mark of our love; we were already bound as close as could be, and what were words and a ritual compared to the simple truth of our feelings? But this would make it real to everyone else as well, proclaim it loud to the world. It would shout our love from the peak of Erebor to the bottom of its deepest mine. It would be... eternal. Nothing on Arda could be better.

Well, perhaps one thing. My eventual goal. But there was much still to happen before I would have any chance of seeing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this fic is finished. I do hope to have a sequel at some point, dealing with events and characters from the LotR trilogy. In the meantime, I hope everyone has enjoyed this story.


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